


The Concrete Jungle

by Tindomerelhloni



Series: The Jungle Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Codependency, Do not re-post my work, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eventual Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, I'm not a fan of my works being downloaded, If you download this, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mycroft is also sort of BAMF, Now completed, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD, Part two of three, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Series now complete, Sherlock is Struggling from Serbia, Smut, They really have a lot of sex, but feel free to download as long as you ask before sharing it :), discussions of trauma, do not SHARE it without asking permission first, or upload to any other website
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 50,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26580325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tindomerelhloni/pseuds/Tindomerelhloni
Summary: In the aftermath of returning to London, Sherlock struggles with life as he once knew it. Physical healing is tedious, and mental healing feels unreachable.  John is by his side every step of his journey, and Mycroft is less suffocating than usual.Time passes. A month, perhaps two go by since he's returned home, Sherlock doesn't bother to pay attention. His body begins to heal, though there are still limitations. But things are looking up... Until John gets an e-mail that visibly upsets him, then he pretends he never received.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Jungle Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1933387
Comments: 75
Kudos: 106





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BRNZ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BRNZ/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gifted this work to my beta, BRNZ, because without her this story wouldn't be anything close to what it is now. She's pushed me to be a better writer, to think out my scenes with more clarity. She also writes for GO and Johnlock, and I suggest you stop right here, leave this chapter and go read her works first. They're delicious.
> 
> Since writing the first installment of this series, I've undergone 2 months of forced bed rest, lower spine surgery, and a horrible few weeks of recovery. The only plus was I had time to write. I will be returning to work on 28/09/2020 (One week from today) and my writing time will be cut drastically. Please be patient, as I will update these chapters SLOWLY, to build suspense, and allow myself to write the third and last part of the series.

It was one of those nights where every time John tried to close his eyes, instead of finding sleep, he saw the broken and bloodied bodies of his friends and fellow soldiers dying on the ground around him. Not daring to look at the clock because knowing an actual time would only make matters worse. Any other night he would have been tossing and turning, but tonight his boyfriend’s head was pillowed on his chest, and John would count every second he was awake rather than wake Sherlock out of what seemed to be a nightmare free sleep. 

Frustration grew inside John with every passing moment. He missed his days in the Army, where at the drop of a hat, he could fall asleep on quite literally any surface, given he had twenty minutes of free time to spare for a nap. As he fought the urge to move, ultimately disturbing Sherlock’s sleep, he forced himself to remember the most uncomfortable spot he’d ever taken a kip. 

After careful consideration, he decided it had to be the Ready Room his team had slept in before shipping out to Africa. There were fifty of them, shiny new recruits on the cusp of their first tour. All of them shoved into a single room. The room was void of any comforts, save a single bathroom, and they were simply told to wait. When someone had been brave enough to ask for how long, their NCO simply walked out of the room, shutting and locking them in. Some had sat, others unpacked a deck of cards, and begun to entertain themselves. John had simply curled up on the cold cement floor, used his pack as a pillow, and slept. He’d been woken up countless times by the noise or having just been stepped on. 

Recalling that day helped put him at ease if only a little. He didn't have a shift at the surgery the next day, so he could afford to be tired. The urge to move, and find a more comfortable spot, however, didn’t subside. He did shift his legs a little, adjusted his shoulder against a pillow for more support, then, allowed himself a glance at their bedroom clock.

2:03 am, which meant John had laid in bed  _ not _ sleeping, for just about four hours. The Doctor pushed his head back into the pillow and let out a slow breath through his nose as he fought to keep the irritation at bay. On the nights that Sherlock joined John in bed, which surprisingly turned out to be most nights, a stark comparison to when Sherlock would go days without sleep, John would find himself the pillow to one certain Consulting Detective. Tonight, Sherlock had his head on John’s left shoulder, a knee cocked up over John’s leg and an arm possessively slung over John’s torso. Before he’d fallen asleep, and his body had relaxed, Sherlock’s hand had been tightly gripping John’s shirt, but now his fingers, relaxed from sleep, rested gently just over John’s right pectoral. 

_ At least one of us gets to sleep _ . John carefully moved the arm that was half trapped under Sherlock’s weight and brushed away the hair that was still tickling his chin. It was rare for Sherlock to sleep this long without a nightmare, so John decided to view tonight as a blessing. Silver linings, and all that.. He listened to the soft sounds that Sherlock made while he slept, felt the steady rise and fall as Sherlock’s chest pressed against his side with every breath. If he were to spend a night awake, at least he could do it while holding the man he loved. It was an unexpected delight to find Sherlock craved body contact, would let down his defenses and be vulnerable and open with his need to be held, petted and soothed.

John couldn’t remember falling asleep, but when Sherlock sat bolt upright screaming, John’s heart raced with the blast of adrenaline in his system. It was still shocking, the sight and sound of his lover in pain, he scrambled to a kneel, hovering in Sherlock’s personal space without touching him. They had both learned the hard way how to deal with the night terrors. He needed to assess the situation, to see if Sherlock was still wrapped up in a nightmare, or awake and still feeling the aftermath of the terror his dream had brought on. 

The screaming stopped as suddenly as it had begun, but his hoarse hurried breathing was loud in the still dark room. Sherlock’s shoulders shook as he choked out wretched sobs, desperate and damaged. Before Sherlock could hide behind his hands, John leaned in and cupped Sherlock’s face and moved to press his forehead against Sherlock’s.

“It’s alright, love. You’re safe, you’re home. We’re both home, in London. Baker Street. You’re safe,” he repeated the familiar words over and over until Sherlock’s violent shaking became a mere tremble and two strong arms wrapped around his back and clung to John’s nightshirt. “It was just a dream, and an awful one at that, but they can’t hurt you anymore.” 

“John…” Sherlock sobbed hot salty tears fell down his face, trailing sticky warmth over John’s hands and soaked into the sheets between them, “John…” 

“Shhh. I’m right here.” John’s heart went out to the man beside him and in a simple act of compassion, he lifted his head just long enough to kiss Sherlock’s forehead. Then he replaced the gentle pressure of his forehead on Sherlock’s and began thumbing away the tears as they fell. 

“Sherlock, love, where are we?” he asked, keeping his voice low and gentle, repeating the steps advised by the therapist Sherlock had unwillingly seen to bring Sherlock back to the here and now 

“Baker Street, London, United Kingdom. I’m in bed, with you.” Sherlock choked out between sobs, forcing himself to recall the truth, pushing the images of harsh men with ruthless intent out of his mind, focussing on the  _ now _ , on the sounds of John’s breathing, the way the bed creaked as his lover shifted to get more comfortable beside him, on the slide of John’s thumbs brushing his tears away. 

Slowly the terrors began to quiet, and while he was still left feeling horrified and shaken, his thoughts slowly became his to control once more. John’s presence beside him reminded him that he was not alone in a small cement cell that stunk of bodily waste, mold, rust, blood, and other foul things. Instead, he filled his sense with touches of comfort, the scent of toothpaste, he could even pick up faint traces of John’s aftershave. His eyes slowly fluttered open and he pulled away from John so he could look his lover in his eyes.

“I’m fi,” he began but stopped when by the light of the small night light in their room he saw one of John’s eyebrows raise. “I’m not fine,” he amended, “but I’m better now than I was a few moments ago.” 

John relaxed a little and lowered one of his hands and entwined his fingers between Sherlocks trembling ones. They sat like that until Sherlock’s body stopped shaking, then he gently pulled Sherlock into his arms and down into the comfort of their bed. With careful movements, he gathered up and tucked the blankets around them both.

Early on, episodes like this were frequent enough that John had begun to learn what to do to calm Sherlock. Blankets comforted Sherlock, having gone so long without them in Serbia, they were an extra sensory input that grounded Sherlock, reminded him he was home, safe, and away from the object of his nightmares. The nightlight in the corner was a comfort and John replaced the bulbs frequently to ensure they were reliably on every night. John still didn’t know why Sherlock was afraid of the dark, but he had learned quickly to warn Sherlock before turning a light off or to hold Sherlock’s hand tight when they were out at night. He knew that, after a nightmare, if he pulled Sherlock close to his body, and stroked his hand gently across the span of Sherlock’s back, his companion would slowly relax and come back to himself. 

It took time, but John was patient and gave Sherlock the time he needed. He gently peppered the top of Sherlock’s head with kisses while tenderly running the tips of his fingers along Sherlock’s spine. They’d been home for three months, and while he didn’t have to worry about his touch causing Sherlock physical pain, he knew that a firmer touch could cause Sherlock’s brain to short wire and would bring on a whole new wave of panic. 

“John?” Sherlock requested after a time, “Make love to me?” 

John felt the tears form in his eyes before he’d had a chance to fully register what Sherlock had asked for. He tightened his grip on Sherlock and buried his nose into his soft curls as he cleared his throat. Emotion made his voice thick when he replied a few moments later, “Of course.” 

They each shifted so they were on their sides facing each other. John quickly replaced his hand on Sherlock’s cheek and gently brushed away the last of the tears. Sherlock closed his eyes and snuggled closer to John until their torsos were touching. John gently prodded Sherlock’s thighs with his knee and Sherlock let out a soft sigh as he parted his legs and allowed John to hook their legs together.. 

“What do you want, my love?” John urged as he kissed away the last tear as it trickled down Sherlock’s cheek. He let his hand roam over Sherlock’s body until it found its way underneath Sherlock’s shirt. Languidly he ran his fingers just above the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms while he waited for a reply.

“I just want to…. feel,” Sherlock began haltingly, “...something... anything but fear. You always make me feel  _ special. _ ”

John huffed out a short breath and looked at Sherlock with all the love and compassion he could muster. He often forgot just how fragile Sherlock was in regards to love and romance. Of course, now more than ever his great detective, known for his cool clinical demeanour, needed to feel human and loved. That was something John could do with genuine ease. 

“That’s ‘cause you are special, Sherlock. You’re the most important person to me in the whole world.” Having pointed out what John had thought to be obvious, he watched as Sherlock’s soft trembling decreased until he was lying still. John marveled at how, for a man of deduction, Sherlock was still unable to understand just how important he was to John. “I don’t tell you that enough, and I’m sorry, love. I’ll do better.” 

“John, you do, you tell me all the time. I struggle to believe it is all.” Sherlock admitted quietly, feeling ashamed that he of all people was finding it hard to distinguish the truth, and John felt a tiny prick of pain in his heart. Sherlock needed reassurance from him, concrete evidence that John was not just saying something he thought was expected.

“When was the last time I lied to you?” he demanded gently, rubbing his nose against Sherlock’s affectionately.

“Hmmmm…” Sherlock purred, “well, you lied about Irene being dead, and then there’s that whole bit about you being some badass super soldier,” he quipped, the corners of his lips turning up into a playful smile.

“Okay, but aside from that?” chuckling John pulled his head back just far enough that they could look at each other without going cross eyed in the dim light.

“I can’t recall,” his lover admitted.

“Exactly, so believe me when I say that I love you, that you’re the best human I’ve ever known and that you are the most important person in my life. But if you can’t believe my words, trust my actions, yeah?” Sherlock nodded and gave John a genuine smile before moving closer and pressing his lips against John’s in a soft kiss. 

When words failed, as they often did with Sherlock in regards to matters of the heart, actions spoke louder than words. John poured everything he had into the kiss, compassion, tender longing, his adoration for Sherlock. He alternated soft brushes of his lips with nearly bruising force, drawing Sherlock out of his self-isolated shell he’d created as protection from further harm.

Sherlock let out a low gasp when their lips met, his still trembling hand found its way into John’s hair. He marveled at his partner, and at the ease with which John put him to ease through his actions. John might not be able to read a crime scene the way he could, but he had perfected the art of understanding what Sherlock needed in these situations. John was somehow able to piece together exactly what Sherlock craved, even before Sherlock himself did, and now was not an exception. He had often wondered why love was such a strong motivator, and often the cause for so many crimes. But it hadn’t been until John had confessed his feelings, his love for him, that he’d fully understand just how powerful love really was.

John's touch pushed away the lonely memories of being in a cell, or dragged down a hall by his hair and arms, and filled Sherlock’s chest with a warmth so strong he thought he might burst at the seams. John’s fingers traveled up from his waistline, over his back and shoulders, and settled at the nape of his neck. Firm fingers wound their way into his hair but remained compassionate and loving. Sherlock never worried that John’s touch might hurt, but he appreciated John’s caution. Knowing that John was taking care to make sure he was comfortable somehow gave Sherlock a sense of validation. As if he weren’t overreacting for fearing a random hand could bring him pain. 

“Ahhh… mmfff,” Sherlock lamented into the kiss which only made John press in closer with more urgency. Sherlock’s own hand snaked down and closed in a firm hold on John’s arse cheek. Sherlock sucked in John’s bottom lip and gently rolled it between his teeth, earning himself a lewd moan from his partner. John slanted his mouth across Sherlock’s, tongue darting with teasing strokes against his. It tickled and sent waves of pleasure that tingled down his spine in small tendrils. John canted his hips forward and Sherlock felt the hardness of John’s erection press into the softer muscles of his stomach, he mirrored John’s moan as he felt his own cock respond.

_What will you do to me, John? How will you draw this out?_ Sherlock wondered as John’s tongue slipped inside his mouth, _I trust you, you’ve always taken care of me. But you are my enigma, the one puzzle I cannot solve. Will you tease me, slow and steady until I’m begging incoherently?_ John’s tongue was a warm and welcome presence against his own. Their tongues slid against each other with gentle motions Sherlock responded with encouraging moans and urgency, he tightened his fingers around John’s arse, pulling him closer, begging for more, _Or will you take me hard and fast, desperate in our desire for each other?_

When he needed a change in pace, Sherlock tilted his chin up, and his brilliant John understood. John softly kissed his way along his jaw and down over his neck. When John’s lips reached the hallowed spot just below his adams apple, Sherlock would have melted into the blankets if it were physically possible. 

“Joh- ahhh…” Sherlock keened as his John continued to press barely-there kisses to the sensitive spot, his hand gripping John’s shoulder as if asking him to never move, to never stop kissing him with such tender sweetness. 

There was a slight shift in the bed as John adjusted his position, then the warmth of John’s solid palm was pressed against Sherlock’s hardening erection. 

“Slowly?” John asked, pulling away from Sherlock’s neck with one final kiss. Sherlock just nodded and watched the way the dim light in the room highlighted the curves on John’s face as he smiled. “Right, off with these then, unless you want a mess in your pyjamas.” John tugged on the fabric for emphasis before shimmying out of his own. While Sherlock was working his way out of his trousers John quickly rolled over and pulled a bottle of lube out of the side table’s drawer, pulled off his shirt, and rolled back over to face Sherlock who lay back on his side, gloriously naked.   
  
“God, you’re gorgeous,” John whispered, drinking in the sight of his dearest, scars and all. Sherlock blushed and used a hand to hide one of the larger scars on his chest, but John shook his head and gently removed his hand. “No, I mean it. Scars and all, you are gorgeous. They…..” he paused for a moment considering his words. Neither of them had talked much about the way Sherlock’s appearance had changed since his imprisonment, and it only now had occurred to John that Sherlock might feel more than simply self conscious regarding his scars, “Well… You always looked… Exotic, like something I couldn’t touch. Something to be admired from afar. Like Michaelangelo’s David. Beautiful, and maybe a little  _ too _ perfect. But your scars, Sherlock, god they tell me a story. A story about how strong you are, that you  _ are _ a bit too perfect, and that I’m lucky to have you.”

“John…” Sherlock’s voice was husky, and there was an edge of disbelief to his words, but that didn’t stop John from proving his point.

“I mean it. Look at me, at my shoulder. What do you think?” John pointed to the starburst scar that took up most of his left shoulder, with a few vein-like scars trailing down to just touch his chest.

“It shows you survived something that should have killed you. That you’re strong, brave, and resilient.” Even as he spoke he understood what John had been trying to say, what he  _ had _ said but Sherlock just hadn’t believed. He regarded his marred body with newfound respect, seen through John’s eyes, and felt as another tear slipped down his face. “Thank you.” 

“Mmm. Now come here, gorgeous,” John assured, “and let me make you feel as good as you look.”

“John, that’s just… what's the word?” Sherlock scowled over at John, but there was laughter in his voice.

“Corny? Mmhmm.” John winked, and Sherlock laughed into the night as he scooted closer on the bed until they were almost touching again. “But it made you smile.”

Their bodies slotted together with such ease that John marveled they’d only been a couple for a few short months.  _ And to think, I spent two years with this man too afraid to tell him how I feel.  _ John thought as he and Sherlock turned to face each other.  _ Our bodies are like the last two puzzle pieces that complete the whole image. _

John’s impatience grew as Sherlock wriggled against him. He hastily poured a glob of lubricant into his palm, reaching between their bodies, slicking both their demanding erections. He then wrapped his hand around both of their cocks and held them together with a firm grip.

“Johhnnn,” Sherlock drawled as pleasure coursed through his body from the simple touch. As if encouraged by the simple moan, John gently began rocking his hips, so he thrust into his fist, making them both gasp at the delicious friction.

_ Oh god, John… _ “Your hand, John, god, it feels so good.” Sherlock let his eyes flutter shut and lost himself, imagining all the different things his partner might do to him.  _ Will you make me come like this, with slow movements that make me feel as if I’ll lose my mind? Or will you switch? Moving faster, harder, milking me for all I’m worth?  _ The possibilities made Sherlock squirm beside John as he wallowed in the anticipation.

“I love feeling you slide against me, knowing you’re getting off just by touching me.” Sherlock sighed, rolling his hips forward in a gentle thrust into John’s firm grip.

“So, this is alright?” John leaned forward and pressed a soft, affectionate kiss to the tip of Sherlock’s nose. Sherlock hummed, and a smile grew on his lips as he nodded languidly. 

“Mmfmm,” Sherlock muttered, sighing with pleasure as John drew out the movements of his hand, slow firm and steady, letting the tension build. He sought out John’s lips, wanting to feel more of his lover and whispered, “more than alright. Make me ache with uncontrolled desire, make me come for you, John. Don’t stop…..ahh. just keep touching me.” 

_ This is all for you, my love. You deserve this and so much more. _ John thought as he slowly rocked his hips forward, using Sherlock’s movements to heighten their pleasure. Sherlock’s cock was longer than his, so he made sure to slide his thumb over the head to ensure that Sherlock was never without enjoyment.

Sherlock happily allowed John to take control. He soaked up every ounce of stimulation like a starved man eating a homecooked meal. His Doctor kept the tempo slow and steady, using his hand to increase the intensity. 

“Just like that, John… God, yes,” Sherlock let out a moan as John changed his grip, squeezing and sliding his fingers for even more sensation. He tried to keep up a steady stream of kisses, peppering John’s lips, chin, jaw, anything he could reach, but as the pleasure grew, his concentration grew sloppy. Sherlock happily settled on placing a hand in John’s hair and grabbing tight. John’s hair had grown considerably in three months, and it was now _just_ long enough for Sherlock to get a firm grip, and as he did so, John let out a heavy sigh and rolled his head back, pressing into the touch. 

“God, you’re sexy like this.” John growled out, “Mmmmm, yes, Sherlock, I love your hands on me, in my hair. Just like that.”

John continued to tease Sherlock by keeping the tempo slow. Wanting more, Sherlock bucked his hips faster and earned himself a few quick slides of cock against cock until John went perfectly still and made a soft clucking noise. Sherlock whimpered and opened his eyes and gave his lover a pleading look. 

“Must I beg for it? Is that what you want?”

_ How can I resist? _ John smiled at Sherlock, reveling in the vision of His detective coming undone before him. 

“C’mere.” John murmured against Sherlock’s lips as he rolled onto his back and watched as Sherlock straddled him without a hint of shame or trepidation. “How did I get so lucky to have the sexiest man alive in my bed?”

Sherlock grinned down at him, his eyes blown wide with desire knowing it was his turn to take charge.

“Sexy, is it? How about when I do this? Sherlock wrapped both of his hands around John’s hand and their cocks, then together they moved as one with quick movements. “I’m using you to satisfy my own needs, and you love it, don’t you, being used by me.?” John threw his head back into the pillow and cried put in a wordless agreement. Sherlock let out a deep growl of pleasure as John arched up into his touch, pleading breathlessly for more as his free hand gripped the bedsheets. 

Having endured slow and steady for far too long, Sherlock had had enough of being patient. Holding both of their cocks in a firm grasp, he used the other hand to tease with sliding strokes. To keep John guessing, he kept the pace erratic, a few long slow glides followed by quick hard pumps. “I’m going to fuck you dry, John, use your cock to make me come. Do you like that? Knowing that I’m using you for my pleasure?”

“Fuck, god, Sherlock, yes, use me!”

As Sherlock took the lead, John let his hand drift to grasp Sherlock’s hip. John’s eyes closed in bliss, moaning “Oh god, yessssss” as Sherlock’s hands worked him with expert movements. Leaning forward, taking his weight on one hand, Sherlock’s hips drove quicker with that familiar hitch and stutter, and John knew that his lover was close.

“I’m close, love, oh fuck...so close... Please, god, don’t stop,” John murmured huskily into the sounds of their heavy breathing, and Sherlock grunted in agreement. Sherlock continued to thrust while wrapping his long elegant fingers around both of them, the slick friction driving both of them towards the inevitable edge. 

_ He loved the feel of their bodies moving together, delighted in how his usually controlled Detective came so deliciously undone. Sherlock brought his usual intent focus to the task at hand (so to speak), always making sure John was adequately attended to. His heart sometimes hurt from how much he loved this complicated man, who dared to love him honestly, damaged goods though they both were.  _

“Fuck...ohh, FUCK, yes, like that!” John shouted the first two words, before remembering it was early morning, Within seconds, he growled low and deep as he came hard enough to leave him dizzy, reveling in the aftershocks leaving him streaked with stripes of come. 

Sherlock coaxed out the last ounce of his lover's orgasm as he listened to John’s moans and gasps. Closing his eyes, he took a moment to store those sounds of pleasure away in his mind palace. John’s cries were, quite possibly, the sexiest thing Sherlock had ever heard.

“Johnnn… I’m going to come… ahhh….all over you,” Urged on by John’s breathy encouragement, “Come on love, let yourself go, come for me, darling man.” Sherlock finally gave himself over to his own building orgasm, fucking his fist hard and tight until with a shuddering guttural groan he came with violent jerks of his hips. 

When eventually he returned to reality, Sherlock looked down at his doctor, who was covered in the evidence of their combined pleasure. Come pooled over John’s lower abdomen, and small trickles of the milky fluid had already begun to side from John’s chest down his side. However, as fascinating as that was, it was nothing compared to the expression on John’s face. His doctor was smiling with that hazy sated grin he only showed when properly fucked and relaxed enough to let down his guard. 

_ It never failed to astonish him how easily John gave himself over to emotion when he felt safe enough to do so. Generous and kind, patient with all Sherlock’s shortcomings, teaching him the ways two men can love each other. Delighting in their victories, laughing at their awkward failures, never judging, always ready with a smile and a murmured “Come here, love.” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ He didn’t always know what to do with the deluge of feelings he seemed unable to manage or control. Serbia changed everything between them, not just their relationship, but their dynamic. Sherlock had unwillingly admitted he needed help, John had simply asked: “What can I do?” Expecting some pithy cutting response like Mycroft would have offered, that simple acceptance had broken down his resistance even further. John gave willingly, entirely, expecting nothing in return. Aware he had viciously hurt his lover by disappearing from his life, Sherlock resolved that he would love John with every fiber of his being, even if he had to figure out how as he was doing it. _

Sherlock bent down, uncaring that he was smearing both of them sticky body fluids, and captured that mouth with his own once more. John’s hands wound their way into Sherlock’s hair and held him close. John kissed him back with slow, soft movements before a quiet laugh bubbled out of his chest. 

“I swear, we must wash our sheets more than the average couple.”    
  
Sherlock thought back to the state of their bed and smirked, adding to the mess by wiping his hands off on the sheet. At the rate they were going, they would have to replace the sheets soon given how frequently they washed them.   
  
“Forty-four percent of adults wash their sheets no more than twice a month, while eleven percent wash their sheets every four months, a surprising five percent wash their sheets no more than twice a year. We wash our bedding no less than twice a week, so I say that is a fair assumption.” Sherlock smiled at his lover, then rolled away, reaching down where they’d had the foresight to keep a small collection of flannels. He passed one to John, then began wiping himself clean. 

When John had followed suit, Sherlock tossed the used cloths in the general direction of the laundry basket then curled back up in bed. He settled on his side, a span away from John, who lay back with a content smile upon his face. 

“I love you, John,” Sherlock murmured, reaching out to place a hand on John’s sweaty chest. John covered Sherlock’s hand with his and turned to look over at Sherlock.

“I love you too, so much.” John’s thumb caressed the back of Sherlock’s hand, and they lay there in a post-coital afterglow as their breathing slowly settled, and sweat dried on their bodies. Just as Sherlock began to feel his eyelids grow heavy, John spoke softly into the stillness, “I’ve been thinking, if you’d have me, I’d rather like for you to be my husband.”   


Sherlock blinked into the night, words utterly failing him. He felt his mouth open and close several times in vain attempts to answer, but no words came out, no matter how hard he tried. John lay patiently beside him, his thumb still steadily stroking, though John did shift so he could get a better look at Sherlock. 

After what felt like half a lifetime, Sherlock was able to simply nod once, though his whole body wanted to vibrate with joy. No matter how many times they had had sex, or kissed, or a soft hand from John as he passed by him in the flat, John always made him feel loved. But here he was with a marriage proposal, which to Sherlock meant a promise that John would always be there, always be his, and finally, he could be John’s. His chest grew tight and words continued to fail him., but all he could do was smile and nod his head as a few tears of joy slipped down his face.

John was there in an instant, kissing away each tear as it fell. “Hush, darling man, I’ve got you”. Sherlock began to nod, and he tried to speak, but all he managed to do was mouth the word “Yes.” A grin like none Sherlock had ever seen before lit up John’s features, then John was burying his face into the hollow of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and pulled him in as close as he dared until John pulled away and settled on his side, resting his head on Sherlock’s good shoulder, and as Sherlock nestled his chin against John’s head, he was finally able to whisper, “Oh god, yes.” 

*** 

Sherlock felt John’s body shift beside him as his doctor slowly slipped out of sleep and into the realm where sleep and real life met with softer edges and happier promises. John had confessed to him once being half awake was his favorite feeling in the world, especially when laying beside Sherlock. Sherlock had to agree. There was something enticing about those moments, where the tides could turn, and they could either pull the covers back up over their heads and slip back into a blissful sleep, or take pleasure in each other’s bodies, or simply start their day with a few soft kisses and murmurs of affection. With a sigh and a stretch, John was snuggling closer, burying his face against Sherlock’s neck and shoulder until Sherlock coaxed him out with a few gentle chuckles.

“Good morning, Fiance,” Sherlock leaned to kissed John’s browline, putting a playful emphasis on the word fiance, “I have a question. Do I get a ring?”

“A ring?” John mumbled, voice still thick with sleep, and Sherlock was graced with one of John’s lazy and contented smiles, where nothing in the world could hurry him or ruin his good humor. 

“Mm, a ring. Traditionally when someone proposes, they provide a ring as a token of their promise. So, I ask again, do I get a ring?” Sherlock was immensely enjoying teasing a still sleepy John, delighting in the expressions his lover made as he tried to comprehend the question. When John woke enough to remember he had proposed in the middle of the night, he pulled away just long enough so they could exchange smiles. Sherlock basked as John’s lazy smile grew into a full-blown grin of pure joy.

John nuzzled deeper into the crook of Sherlock’s neck and laughed. Happily kissing wherever he could reach between laughs, gently running his fingers over Sherlock’s side, hoping to find a ticklish spot as he caught on to the playful mood. Sherlock allowed John to the count of ten before he swatted John’s hand away as he hastily attempted to wiggle away from John’s wandering fingers. 

“Do you want a ring, love? ‘Cause I’ll get you a ring if you want it. Big gaudy thing, with a diamond the size of your knuckle. I’ll get it engraved, have it say something like ‘with love, to my poppet’ or something horrid like that.” John rolled over as he spoke, and hitched a leg over Sherlock’s body, trapping his detective between his thighs. Then, using both hands, he sought out the one spot where he knew Sherlock was the most ticklish. His fingers found the soft skin at his lover's waist. He ran his fingers lightly over the area, laughing when Sherlock tried to buck him off, but he remained steadfast. If only for a few minutes. He was always concerned that if he kept Sherlock pinned for too long, it could trigger a memory or a spike of anxiety. This moment they were sharing was far too precious to risk ruining, and he always allowed Sherlock the chance to turn the tables and return the favor. 

Which is how, on that particular Tuesday morning, John found himself beneath his intended, having his wits tickled out of him while they negotiated what type of engagement ring Sherlock wanted.

“I want,” Sherlock purred out, his voice dripping with honey as his tongue made slow circles around one of John’s nipples, “a silver ring. Not too thick, and not too thin. It has to be perfect, John, perfect.” 

“And does his Royal Highness want a design on said perfect silver ring?” John gasped out as Sherlock’s tongue lapped lower and lower, roving over each rib as he slowly moved down John’s body.

“Mmmhmm…” he rumbled, then latched on to the soft muscles just below John’s ribcage and began a gentle suction until the skin beneath his lips had turned a shade of red that promised to remain for a few days. “Honeycomb, and I’ll wear it on my right hand, until we’re married. Did you know that in Russia, it is typical for a married couple to wear their rings on their right hand? I could bore you with the details, but it goes back to ancient Roman times.”

“And when, ahhhhh,” John rocked his hips up against Sherlock, his erection pressing into Sherlock’s chest without a hint of shame, “did you learn this?”

“It was merely research.” Sherlock hummed as he sucked another red spot on John’s skin, directly over John’s heart. John canted his hips again, sighing at the sweet friction. He was just about to reach down and take hold of Sherlock’s own achingly hard cock when Sherlock sat up and shifted off the bed with a wicked grin.

“Get me that ring, then you can have me again, John.” Sherlock gestured to himself, from his toes to his erection, all the way up to the tip of his bed mussed hair with a flourish of his hand then winked.

John let out a frustrated groan as Sherlock strutted, stark naked, to his wardrobe, picked out a set of clothes, then with a second, far more devilish wink, said, “I’ll be in the shower, having a wank. Shall we leave after breakfast?” 

John lay in bed, listening to the sounds of Sherlock’s groans and cries of pleasure echoing off the bathroom walls. He took himself in hand, closing his eyes to picture Sherlock, with water streaming down his body, curls plastered to his forehead. The git probably had his head tilted back, mouth open as he loudly performed solely for John’s benefit. John came into his hand, his moans joining those coming from the open bathroom door, then he shook his head and laughed at how much his life had changed since that single text from Mycroft.

***

Sherlock dragged John to what was quite possibly the most expensive jeweler this side of London. John tried not to feel uncomfortable as Sherlock bent over the ring display, ogling them like a child would a display full of candy. John’s bank account wasn’t exactly the dismal affair it had been when he and Sherlock had first met. After all, two years of nearly non stop working, and having no passions or hobbies to want to spend money on had given him a nice little nest egg, but the rings that drew Sherlock’s attention were astonishingly expensive. He hadn’t realized a simple ring could go up to such an astonishing price. He was trying to think of a polite way to ask Sherlock if there was perhaps another store they could patronise when his mobile buzzed.

**Congratulations are in order, I gather. A rather large sum of money has been transferred to your account. Consider it payment for your mission, or simply a wedding present. Do with it as you wish, but my brother does have expensive taste. Have you seen his suits? -MH**

John looked out the glass storefront and spotted the closest CCTV camera. He rolled his eyes simply out of habit but mouthed “Thank you” before returning his attention to his husband to be. Sherlock, it seemed, had found the ring of his dreams. He had his nose pressed against the glass display case with such force that there would certainly be a greasy mark left behind. His hands, clad in his rather sexy leather gloves, were gripping the edge of the case as he stared intently at a particular design. To John, the sight was quite possibly the cutest thing he’d ever seen. Sherlock Holmes, the great detective with an international reputation for being cool, calculating, and machinelike, had considerable opinions regarding an engagement ring for himself. 

“We’ll take two of these, please.” Sherlock requested, pointing to a delicate silver band with flat edges, giving it an almost square look. John had to shake away his disbelief, not at the choice, but at the simple fact that Sherlock had said  _ please _ , without being prompted.

“You just said please,” John noted, slipping an arm through the crook of Sherlock’s elbow as the clerk jotted down their order, “that was nice of you.”

“I can be nice, when I choose,” Sherlock agreed, tightening his arm against his side, squeezing John’s hand gently between his arm and his jacket. Then, to the shop clerk added, “and could we get them both engraved? I would like a simple honeycomb design on mine, and for John, “he looked over at his Fiance and thought for a moment before continuing, “a single Celtic Knot.”

The clerk nodded, took their ring sizes, contact, and payment information, and soon they were stepping out of the store into the bright morning sunlight. 

“You paid, why did you pay?” Sherlock glanced quizzically at John as they began walking down the street. Instead of bothering to reply, John simply handed Sherlock his mobile, showing him Mycroft’s text.

“Mycroft, a romantic. Who would have thought.” Sherlock mused and handed the mobile back over, “If it were for services rendered, there would have been an invoice. A highly redacted invoice, but the government loves their paper trails, after all.” 

John looked around at the shops, spotted one that might have something of interest to him, and pulled Sherlock in the direction of the store. “Come on, I have one other thing I want to buy if we’re out spending money we didn’t know we had.”

“Fine, but I’m buying you a suit with that money. Then we can burn that horrid brown sorry excuse for a suit.” Sherlock shuddered at the recollection and his face drew up into a sour expression, “and a new tie.” 

“We don’t even know how much Mycroft gave us,” John tried to protest, but Sherlock waved a hand in the air.

“Easily five figures, there is an agreement in our family, when it comes to engagements. Tradition, some would call it.” 

“But, wouldn’t that money typically be used for building a home? Or raising children?” John pointed to a shop to get Sherlock’s attention, as they walked in together a bell trilled cheerily above them. 

“Who’s to say we won't have children. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I am aware that as two men, biological children would be… well, impossible aside from one of us donating sperm and having a surrogate. But, John, we could adopt my homeless network! Think of it, all the children working for us?”   
  
“That sounds more like employment, Sherlock,” John laughed and shook his head, thoroughly enjoying the mood and the company. He poked around the shop for a few minutes, then shook his head, indicating that what he had in mind was not to be found in that store.   
  
Before he’d managed to find another shop that looked promising, Sherlock dragged him inside a tailor shop where they spent nearly an hour getting John fitted. Sherlock and the tailor had a tediously long conversation over cloth, patterns, colors, and altogether far too many other details. They’d almost gotten into a heated argument over a pocket square colour, when John randomly shouted “Green!” to which the shop owner and Sherlock both looked at each other and nodded in agreement. 

Finally, the painful business with the suit behind them, John spotted a likely shop and pulled a still surprisingly jovial Sherlock into the dimly lit store. In less than five minutes John found what he’d been looking for. They were standing in the middle of a Homegoods section, surrounded by bedding, and the types of square pillows that somehow ended up on everyone’s sofa only to be moved around and out of the way before anyone sat down. Tucked away on a shelf was a soft grey fuzzy blanket that begged to be stroked, and the tag read “Weighted blanket, 3Kg.” John hefted the folded blanket into his arm, ignored Sherlock’s questioning look, and brought it to the front of the store where he paid for it, using more of Mycroft’s money and felt a little cheeky over their spending spree.

Having spent the better part of the morning shopping, John was feeling peckish and somehow got Sherlock to agree to lunch. Noticing that Sherlock was more likely to eat absentmindedly while occupied with other things, they grabbed some kebabs to eat while searching for a taxi. Sherlock eyed the bag which held the weighted blanket, clearly curious but not quite ready to stoop as low as to question John. 

Once they were home John pulled the blanket out of its wrapping, unfolded it, and directed Sherlock to sit. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his curiosity got the best of him, as John knew it would. Before sitting Sherlock stripped out of his suit jacket, kicked his shoes off, then sat in his leather chair. He draped his arms over the sides of the chair but brought one knee up to press against his chest with his foot resting on the cushion. John smiled encouragingly. The position was an improvement. Since his imprisonment, Sherlock’s first instinct when he sat was to curl up into a defensive ball, knees bent up to protect his vitals. 

John held up the blanket, pausing in a silent question as he waited for permission to approach Sherlock as he sat. Sherlock nodded, and John noted how he didn’t flinch as John walked behind him, where his back was  _ not _ protected, and gently draped the full weight of the blanket over Sherlock’s back and shoulders. 

“Alright?” he asked with more than a little apprehension in his voice. The weight of the blanket would either be suffocating to Sherlock or comforting. John was hoping for the later reaction. He watched carefully for any signs of distress as Sherlock reached up slowly with his hands, took the edges of the blanket in them, and pulled the blanket closed over his chest. Slowly he relaxed back into the chair, his leg dropping to the floor. After a few moments of soaking in the weighted comfort, Sherlock rubbed at his eyes and muttered, “must have gotten dust in my eyes.” 

John chuckled and moved to sit in his own chair. Then made a show of rubbing at his eyes as well. “Mm dusty in here, isn’t it.” John settled into his chair, crossed his legs, and watched Sherlock for a moment more until he couldn’t stand the suspense any longer, “So, what do you think?” 

“John… it’s… well, comforting.” the Never-Without-A-Smart-Arse-Thing-To-Say detective stammered, running his fingers over the blanket and shrugging his shoulders under the steady weight. “I think I’ll like it very much. It’s almost like being hugged by you, only you’ll be going back to work soon, and I won't always have that. But I’ll have this now, won't I?”

“Good.” John bent down and kissed Sherlock’s forehead. “I’ve noticed that blankets help, that you sleep best if I tuck you in, and wrap the blankets around you. I figured, this might help on the days where your mind won't shut down and I’m not here. When the thoughts grow too loud to turn off. I’m torn, about returning to work. Sarah said I can return whenever I wish, she agreed to three days a week for now, so I can be here for you the other four. Still, I worry.”

“You brilliant man,” Sherlock praised his partner as he pulled the blanket even tighter around himself, then stretched out his legs so his feet were touching John’s in the space between their chairs. “You should go back to work. I think a bit of routine will be helpful to us both. I can,” Sherlock wrinkled his nose and growled out, “schedule my therapy sessions for the days you are at work.”

“You’ll go then?” John perked up. He kicked his shoes off and slid his sock-clad feet over Sherlock’s. Sherlock had seen a therapist, in fact, they hadn’t been permitted by Mycroft to leave Serbia until Sherlock had seen one, but John had yet to get him to agree to see one with any sort of regularity. 

“Yes, John. If you are wise enough to be able to admit therapy was of some use to you, then perhaps I can find some use in it. Even if it is just deducing her other clients.” Sherlock smirked, then laughed as John gently kicked at his feet. 

“I’m proud of you, Sherlock, very proud.” John beamed, then slid out of his chair to kneel between Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock bent down and melted into the kiss. Between the comforting weight of the blanket and the man he’d eventually get to call husband, Sherlock felt hope kindle in his chest that just maybe, things might turn out alright. He released a hand from the inside of the blanket and stroked his fingers over John’s jaw.

“I’d be lost without you, John Watson. Please, consider my agreeing to therapy as my thanks for all you’ve done for me. Without you, I don’t think I could cope.” 

John just grinned up at his lover. It was infectious, and Sherlock couldn’t help but grin back. And in that moment, life around them seemed to pause. Even the rays of sunlight that had been streaming in through the window and dancing across John’s face seemed to have gone still, only the sounds of the busy street at the end of Baker Street indicated that life continued as they shared this moment.

“What would I do without you?” He asked though he didn’t expect an answer. In reply, John just continued to smile, then feeling he had to say something after a moment added, “Well, let’s just hope you never have to find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'll post another chapter after my first day back to work. So Monday evening EDT. That'll give you all a week to poke and prod me for more details, and to let me know what you think so far. 
> 
> If I've missed any obvious tags, let me know. I'm awful at tagging
> 
> Also, I've added a few "Don't download/repost my works" tags. I did so for a reason. I recently found three of my works uploaded elsewhere, one person claimed that someone on tubmlr messaged them, and "gave them their abandoned johnlock story, and wanted them to have it to repost under other ships." They literally took my fic, word for word, but Changed Sherlock to Doctor Strange, and John to Tony Stark... I could be over reacting here, but I'm still annoyed lol. Download away, if you prefer to read on an e-reader. But please ask before sharing the downloaded PDF


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a bad day, and my emotional support boyfriend is 6+ hours away on a 10 day fishing trip. So I'm posting this for me ;) LOL
> 
> I'm happy for him, he deserves it, and we'll video chat every night... I'm just lonely, and some family drama just popped up. 
> 
> But HERE HAVE SOME WORDS, and let me know what you think!

**One Week Later**

Sherlock’s body was getting stiff, especially his left shoulder. He’d been in the same position on the sofa for too long, but couldn’t find the energy to roll over, or even to reach up and grab the square decorative pillow to support his head.

“I used to have perfect control over my transport!” Sherlock grumbled as he finally caved to his physical needs and angrily stuffed the pillow under his head, “Now look, pillows, blankets,  _ food _ ! Catering to this blasted ache in my shoulder by letting John massage me. What next, Holmes? Are you going to start worrying about what others think of you?”   
  
“It’s normal, Sherlock,” John sighed and half-closed the lid of his laptop, allowing an unobstructed view of his grumpy lover. “to experience changes after trauma.”  
  
Sherlock swiveled his head around and glared suspiciously at John. Did his doctor have a higher skill of deduction than Sherlock had given him credit for? In a rather shocking manner, he had learned that there was a whole other side to John Watson than he had initially known. But he found it hard to believe that John could so easily deduce his thoughts. 

John gave him a tight-lipped smile before returning his attention to the troubling e-mail he’d received. He kept his face neutral, now was not the time to upset Sherlock with the words that filled his screen. In an attempt to keep Sherlock’s focus away from him, and possibly piecing together details, John was not quite ready to confide in Sherlock. Attempting to distract him he said, “You’ve been talking out loud for the past twenty minutes.” 

**The phrase “King of the Jungle” refers to the Lion. However, this is a widely used misconception. The lion is** **_not_ ** **a jungle animal. Interestingly enough, the lion's habitat includes grasslands, scrublands, and** **_rocky_ ** **terrain. The Panther, however, is native to the jungle and is much more adept at fighting. Did you know that in a fight between a lion and a panther, the panther would win? The lion is undoubtedly the more robust animal, but panthers are masters at hiding, have higher speed, and** **_all_ ** **they do is fight.**

**S**

He scanned the words again, memorising them before hitting delete, and then using the skills he had learned working with Sherlock, made sure it was permanently deleted everywhere off his laptop. He must have let something of his worry show on his face; John could feel Sherlock’s eyes boring into him. As an extra layer of protection between Sherlock and his account, John changed his laptop password once again, using a method he had learned while in The Jungle. A habit he had been practicing for a few weeks now since he’d found in his search history, “Efficient ways to non-fatally poison people”. 

For one fleeting moment, Sherlock saw deep worry lines along John’s brow, with the skin around his mouth strained. Then, just as quickly, they were gone. Sherlock sat up and stared at his lover, soaking in the details of what quite possibly could be the first  _ real _ puzzle he’d had in weeks. He placed his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers beneath his nose.

_ What could have upset John? He’d been reading something. An email, perhaps. But what was in the email to upset him? My brother gets a laugh out of my mad fiance when he tries threatening him. If Mycroft cannot scare him, who can? I need details! _

“John?” Sherlock queried, standing, pausing a moment to stretch his muscles before walking over to where John sat. While necessary, the pause was unfortunate as it gave John a few extra seconds to close out of whatever was on his screen. But that didn’t matter, it would simply make this more of a challenge, and Sherlock desperately needed a distraction.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just an old acquaintance. Back in town, they want to meet up.” John chose his words carefully, leaving out the truth without giving a straight-up lie, and sighed when Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. “I declined to answer. No need to be concerned.” John placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and gave him a soft peck on the cheek before powering down his laptop, which made Sherlock scowl.

“How about we do your physio before you grow more miffed than you already are. Then I’ll take you for a walk to get out of the flat. Be a good boy, and you might get a treat.”

“Johnnnn,” Sherlock complained, his shoulders slumped and he tried the wide-eyed pout which usually got him a smile, “I did physio yesterday.”

“Exactly, yesterday. While I’m not a genius, I do know that yesterday’s physio is  _ not _ the same thing as today’s.” John was incredibly tempted to say,  _ Trust me, I’m the doctor, _ but he knew the pop culture reference would be wasted on Sherlock, so he settled for a stern glare with his arms crossed over his chest.

“John, I do believe you enjoy browbeating me,” Sherlock grumbled, as he pulled off his suit jacket.  _ Fine, if you’re going to make me do this, I’ll do it, but I will not pretend to be happy about it, plus it will be easier to concentrate on what has upset you if you think I’m upset. _ He tossed his suit jacket carelessly onto the floor. Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught John’s disapproving frown at the childish gesture.

As he stomped across the room to where John had a small box filled with tools used for physio, Sherlock unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. He was annoyed with John for lying about the e-mail, irked that John had remembered that he hadn’t done his exercises for the day, and quite bothered that the criminal class had been up to nothing of interest as of late. Oh, there had been some cases, a few of them nearly interesting, but Sherlock felt as if his life had gone stagnant. Just when he needed a distraction, there were none to be found. Life was a constant circle of physio, boring clients, and sex. Though he did quite enjoy the sex, so it wasn’t  _ all _ bad. 

“You’re going to want to take your shirt off,” John ignored his lover’s immature behaviour and went to stand beside him. Before Sherlock could pick out something simple, like a weight or a ball to squeeze, John pulled out a large resistance band and held it up for the detective’s inspection, “you’re ready for this.”

“The shirt stays,” Sherlock said huffily, not afraid to let his annoyance show. He eyed the hideous green band with pure hatred. John has previously demonstrated the exercise expected of him. They had both tried it together two weeks ago, but it had caused too much pain, so John had put a stop to it immediately, which had been okay with Sherlock. He’d felt like a complete twat. It was supposed to strengthen his shoulder while helping to rebuild some core strength he’d lost. John  _ was _ right, it would be much easier without a shirt, but Sherlock was feeling especially stubborn in his boredom.

“Sherlock, I swear to god,” John pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes agitatedly, “take your shirt off. Because if I have to hear about a button popping off, or god forbid a rip in the fabric, I might finally hire someone else to take over physio, or invite Mycroft over for a formal dinner.” 

“Fine, then do it with me. If I am to be topless, the least you can do is join me, so I can look at something appealing while doing these cursed exercises.” Sherlock said that out loud before he could remind himself that he was  _ trying _ to be upset at John for lying to him. Plus, distancing himself from John always gave the best results. John would assume that he’d done something to upset him, grovel and try to apologize for whatever it had supposedly done, and would typically let one or two details slip. 

This session, though, John gave nothing away. He focused his full attention on ensuring Sherlock executed the exercises properly. John also pushed Sherlock harder than he had before, which caused Sherlock to lose focus on the mysterious email, or message, that had upset his partner. After the thirty-minute session, John finished his last set of lateral pulldowns with the resistance band. When Sherlock completed his last set as well, he took the equipment and began packing it away for the day.

“Go take a shower, love. It’ll relax your muscles, then we’ll go out.”   
  
John avoided eye contact as Sherlock gathered up his shirt, and with a sigh of frustration, Sherlock did as he was instructed. But only because a shower  _ would _ feel nice. The new set of exercises had worked muscles that hadn’t been used in months, on top of putting a slight strain on his left shoulder. He would have to watch John closely over the next few days to see if there were any changes in his behaviour or routine. 

Reaching into the shower to turn the taps on, letting the water heat up while he removed the rest of his clothing. Sherlock stood naked on the mat beside the tub and massaged his sore shoulder while he pondered the problem that was John Watson. He couldn’t take anything for face value anymore. John had successfully hidden what amounted to a whole other part of his life for two years. Without ever once making Sherlock suspicious. 

Though, looking back at their first case together, at the skillful shot that had ended the serial killer cabbie’s life, Sherlock wondered if he had simply missed the first, blindingly obvious clue. 

_ Love is a strong motivator, however, it is equally a disadvantage. _

Sherlock stepped into the water, adjusted the temperature to his liking, then continued to think as he went through his shower routine. 

_ Had I fallen for John so quickly that night sitting across from him at Angelo’s that I failed to read him thoroughly? No, I knew it was him who’d shot the cabbie the moment I saw him standing there like a lost puppy beside the police tape. So what, Sherlock, THINK! _

Sherlock pulled at his hair with his left hand, then cursed as he tweaked his shoulder. He then had to pause and spend several agonizing moments, focusing on rolling his shoulder to relieve the pain before going back to his mind palace. He brought up the moment where Lestrade had asked him for anything he’d had on the cabbie’s killer.

“The bullet they just dug out of the wall’s from a handgun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that’s a crack shot you’re looking for, but not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatized to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so, strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service.” 

_ And then I saw John. Wearing that blasted jumper, his face projecting innocence. We made eye contact for a split second before he looked away. It was then I knew he’d done it, how... HOW did I know?  _

Sherlock grunted as the shampoo he’d neglected to rinse off stung his eyes. As he scrubbed at his face under the stream of water, he suddenly knew.    
  
_ John looked AWAY! He doesn’t hide. He avoids. This whole time, he never hid his past; he simply never told me it existed.  _

As he finished his shower, Sherlock tried to think back to how many times in the last hour, John had met his gaze. Three, maybe four times? Typically, during physio, John would entertain Sherlock by making small talk, encouraging him, or he would merely watch Sherlock go through the set of exercises with a pleasant smile on his face. This time, however, John had done them with him. They had stood side by side, each of them facing the windows as John worked them through each form. John was most definitely avoiding Sherlock’s gaze for a reason.

Sherlock stepped out of the shower with renewed vigor. John had seemed concerned, frightened even, but he hadn’t been angry, which was a sign that things were not  _ yet _ urgent. John Watson expressed immediate danger to himself, or those around him, by shouting. So, until John began shouting, Sherlock had time to unravel the mystery. If John wanted to play the “Everything is alright” card, then so would Sherlock. Two could play at that game.

“You took your time,” John said but not unkindly, as Sherlock stepped back into their lounge sometime later. He was at his laptop again, which he closed, and then without looking up at Sherlock, stood to get his coat. 

“Had to blow dry my hair. I can’t be seen walking around London with wet, flat hair,” Sherlock reached up and touched one of his curls, hoping to draw John’s attention, but the attempt failed. John simply looked around the flat as he patted his pockets, making sure he didn’t forget anything. 

Sherlock noted out of the corner of his eye that John’s laptop still sat on the table, and John had not locked it, just closed the lid. Which typically meant it had gone into hibernation unless John had changed his settings. Sherlock entertained, sending John downstairs, with a promise to follow in a moment. Given John had claimed it was something trivial, he knew John would not appreciate the breach of privacy. Instead, he would wait and observe John for further clues.

“Right, where to? Regent’s Park, we can stop and get something sweet on our way back?”

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally and did his best to give John a genuine smile as they both put their coats on.

“Lead the way, John.” 

Sherlock followed John out into the crisp early spring day. A brisk gust of wind greeted them as they stepped onto the pavement, making Sherlock grateful for his scarf, which he tugged more snugly against his neck and followed John up Baker Street. 

Sherlock looked up at the late morning sky and squinted as the sun attempted to peek between a few grey clouds. He thought of mentioning the possibility of rain to John but decided that redundant. They were Londoners. Living in London meant being aware that at any point in time, it might rain. He allowed himself a split second to consider if Mycroft had the right idea of always carrying an umbrella, then dismissed the thought. Unlike Mycroft, he was not below hailing a cab as an alternative to the annoyance of carrying an umbrella around constantly. Now, after his time spent in the unsavory and damp confinements of the Serbian prison, Sherlock found himself apprehensive over the prospect of typical London weather.

_ Perhaps I should invest in an umbrella. Mycroft would find immense pleasure in picking one out for me. _

John reached out, taking hold of Sherlock’s hand, but only managed two steps before he was forced to stop. He looked back and found Sherlock staring at their hands, now stretched out between their bodies. Sherlock’s eyes were blinking rapidly, and his mouth was hanging open as if he couldn’t quite grasp something. He flexed his fingers around John’s and finally looked up at his partner.

“You’re holding my hand.” There was disbelief and wonder in Sherlock’s voice, and he went back to staring at John’s hand and how their fingers were laced together.

“Mmhmm. I am,” John took a step closer to Sherlock, so their arms weren’t stretched out quite so uncomfortably, “We’ve held hands before.”

“Yes, but never out in public,” Sherlock recalled all the times they’d held hands. It had always been inside somewhere. Inside the prison, the getaway van, the Villa in Serbia, the plane, the car ride back home, and many times within the walls of 221B.  _ He’s not ashamed of us, of showing anyone who cares to look that he’s with me, in more ways than just as a flatmate. _ Sherlock felt a bright spark of joy at the thought that John would willingly and openly admit they were more than just friends. He gave John’s hand a firm squeeze then took a step in the direction John had started to walk just moments ago. “I quite like it, you holding my hand.” 

“Good.” John gave him a warm smile, then together they headed North up Baker Street. Sherlock had been out of the flat precious few times since arriving back home. He’d accepted a few cases for the Met, and one for a private client, ultimately each venture had been met with its own set of trials.

At first, London’s everyday sounds had been enough to make it hard for him to find his focus. 

He’d had a bit of a meltdown working on an active crime scene, the lights flashing against the evening sky, people moving quickly while talking loudly. But John had been there, he’d been by his side and had made excuses for Sherlock when the world became too stimulating. With John’s help, he’d solved the cases, but chose to take cases he could decipher from inside the flat. Cases that provided mental stimulation without causing setting off his PTSD. 

Going out for a simple walk had almost been an instant rejection when John suggested it. But his feet missed hitting the streets. His body ached for movement again. He’d been stagnant for too long, and he knew that if he didn’t start acclimating to this new way of life, he might never get back doing what he loved. 

Sherlock watched the street as they walked, took in the shops, the cars, the people while John led them at a leisurely pace. He made sure to only cross the road when it was completely safe, which Sherlock was thankful for. He had no reason to be afraid of fast-moving vehicles; however, simply knowing that something _ could _ hurt him after what he experienced in Serbia had created a plethora of new fears. John led them with care and consideration to the closest entrance to Regent’s Park.

They walked along the path that followed the southern bit of the boating lake, heading toward York Gate. Sherlock took in the people and the ducks that were in the early stages of nesting. John kept a firm grip on his hand and a smile on his face as they meandered along. 

_ Alright, you’re out in public, you have John by your side. Nothing can happen to you. Time to  _ _ think _ _ again, Sherlock. Her, the woman with the horrid dye job, think! _

Sherlock eyed the lady as she passed. She had a mobile clutched tightly in her hand, so tight in fact that her knuckles had gone white. Her eyes were puffy, indicating she’d been crying recently, and her nose was raw and red. She had cat hair on the lower half of her trousers and a scuff on one of her shoes.

_ She’s recently left her partner, though she isn’t happy about it. Either he dumped her, or he cheated. She’s moved back in with her elderly mother. She’s allergic to her mother’s cats, judging by the raw skin around her nose, and she’s just texted her ex asking for her clothing back. She’s wearing spare clothing and an old pair of shoes.  _

Sherlock let out a sigh and allowed himself to feel a little proud of himself. It had been far too long since he’d felt comfortable enough to release his focus from  _ everything _ around him long enough to focus on one thing or person. John looked over at him and caught his eye. Sherlock gave him a pleased smile and squeezed his hand.

“My mind is slowly becoming my own again. You said to celebrate small victories, and I just deduced all the boring details about that young lady with purple hair who just passed us, no, don’t turn around, John!” Sherlock chuckled as John twisted to look over his shoulder. 

“Can you do anyone else?” John asked, pointing to an older man walking a small dog. The dog was currently taking a piss on the grass, while the man seemed not to have noticed, as he dragged the poor animal for a few steps before looking back to see what had drawn his dog’s interest.

“Senile should probably be in a home, or out walking with an aid,” Sherlock said after one quick look. He watched, expecting the man to yank on the leash and drag the poor animal across the grass before he’d finished relieving his bladder, but instead, he watched as the man paused and began gently talking to the mutt. “No, I got it wrong. Not senile. Possibly just lost his wife or received bad news. Look at the way he’s comforting the dog. As if he’s apologizing for being harsh. He’s out for a walk to clear his head.” 

“Like we are,” John commented and gave Sherlock’s hand another squeeze. John led them up and over the nearest bridge, continuing to follow the boating lake, this time keeping it on their right. It was either too early in the season, or the weather had turned away potential boaters. There were fewer people on this side of the water, and Sherlock found himself enjoying their stroll. 

His feel gently pounded the paved path, sending pleasant vibrations up his body. He focused on his feet, on the feel of his leather soles against the pavement. After a while, he noticed that John’s footsteps were louder than his, so he looked over and noted John’s footwear.  _ Same old brown leather shoes with broguing. I’m more aware of my steps, and John just plods along as if he owns the ground he walks on. _ Sherlock smiled to himself; while some things had changed during his absence, not everything had. 

About halfway between bridges, Sherlock noticed an empty bench. He pointed to it, and John nodded. They settled in comfortably, facing the water, and John kept his hand firmly clasp around Sherlock’s. 

“John…” 

“Mmm?” John turned his gaze from a pair of ducks who were foraging around the shoreline to look over at the detective.

“This helps,” Sherlock lifted their hands up off the bench a short distance then smiled at John. 

“I’m glad.” Instead of letting their hands return to the cool surface of the bench, John moved closer to Sherlock, so their thighs were touching and placed their hands on his leg. 

Sherlock could feel John’s body heat radiating through his jeans. He untangled his fingers from John’s and pressed his palm flat against John’s leg, soaking up the warmth from both sides as John’s palm covered his hand. 

They sat for a long while in comfortable silence. John kept his focus split between the man at his side and their surroundings. It was common courtesy, amongst organizations like The Jungle, to give one of their own a twenty-four-hour warning but still flaunting himself in public like this had still been a foolish decision, even if his timer hadn’t been started yet.  _ I’m not one to hide when the going gets tough, if West is on his way, then so be it. I’ll make him face me man to man. Friend to friend. He owes me that much, after all, we went through together. _

Their silence was broken sometime later by a soft chime from John’s mobile. Sherlock studied John intently as he pulled the device from his pocket and read over the message.  _ No signs of tension, possibly unrelated to the email. _ He thought moment’s before John turned his attention to Sherlock with a questioning glance. 

“That was from Sarah. She’s asking if I could take a shift at the clinic next week. Will you be alright if I’m gone for part of the day? I’d be home by supper.” John noticed the tight lines of panic on Sherlock’s face and hastily added, “I can say no, she’ll understand. It’s just locum work.” 

The prospect of a whole day without John was certainly daunting. While John had yet to show any resentment towards him for their lengthy stay indoors, Sherlock knew that a day working for the surgery would be good for him. “By all means, John. I’ve had a chemical experiment I’ve meant to attend to. It has the potential to go quite wrong, causing an intense sulfuric stench. I had intended to save it for a day where you were out.”  _ With you being out of the flat, that could give me a chance to crack your password and gain access to your laptop.  _

“Right, I’ll say yes, but if you need me to stay…” John trailed off, giving Sherlock time to redact his approval, but Sherlock simply waved his free hand in the air. John typed out a reply to Sarah, pocketed his mobile, then looked up at the distinctly ominous-looking clouds “Start moving?” 

“Definitely.” Sherlock agreed. It had begun to mist, while John had been replying to his boss. At first, the cool damp sensation on his skin made him feel like he was back home, running through the streets of London with John by his side. Then suddenly, as the mist coated his face, apprehension began to build and bubble over inside him. 

He stood quickly, pulling John up with him, and squeezed his eyes shut as a bubble of despair threatened to make his knees give out. Damp had never bothered him before Serbia, but now he was jittery, nerves strung tight, breathing shallow and fast. He was most certain it would affect him, after his prolonged stay inside a damp cell.  _ We’ve had a rather nice time out, I’d rather not ruin it by panicking over something as trivial as rain. _

With a quicker pace than before, they resumed their journey. Sherlock didn't notice time passing as he tried to maintain control of his faculties. His free hand now trembled violently at his side.  _ I should tell John. We can get a cab just outside on the main road.  _ Sherlock dismissed the notion almost instantly.  _ It's just rain… it can't hurt me.  _

The sounds of his feet against payment changed, and he forced himself to become aware of his surroundings once more. John was looking at him with concern as they passed over the bridge leading out of the park. As they crossed over to the other side, the slight mist turned into a proper London drizzle. 

_ "What are your warning signs?" _

John didn't need to say it out loud. The tight lines of worry on his brow spoke louder than any verbal cues. 

_ First, my hands shake. My throat becomes tight, making it hard to talk, which is only amplified when my mind begins to fog over. Then one of two things happens. I breathe too heavily, or not enough—either way, bad for breathing, bad for standing upright.  _

Sherlock forced himself to keep a tight rein on his breathing. As his concentration narrowed, he lost his control over his hands, and the tremor was easily noticeable. John gently pressed their combined hands against his hip as they walked.

It was still drizzling when they finally made it out of the park. Sherlock could feel cold trickles dripping off his hair and onto his temples. With every passing second, the tightness in his chest made it harder to manage his breathing. A wet curl plastered itself onto Sherlock’s forehead. He swallowed down a soft whimper at the clammy feeling; John squeezed his hand gently. They exchange another wordless glance, and John noted toward a cab just at the entrance to Regent's Park.

"I'll be fine." Sherlock managed to croak out. John gave him a skeptical look but then shrugged his shoulders to say “Suit yourself, I don't want to push you.” 

From their vantage point out on the main road, Sherlock had a clear view down York Gate. Remembering one of the tricks John had taught him he searched around for a focal point and noticed the old church steeple at the end of the road. 

“Having a single point on which to focus enables you to veer away from other distractions or thoughts that are causing you to feel anxious, nervous, or stressed out. It almost seems too simple to focus on a single point, but it’s actually a challenge that may serve as a mental exercise.” John had told him this weeks ago, but he’d never needed to put the method into practice. 

_ If there is one thing I am good at, is mental exercises. I can do this, so look! Pick something! _ _   
_ _   
_ Sherlock’s eyes darted anxiously across and down the street until they fell on the tallest point at the end of the street.   
_   
_ _ St. Marylebone Church, only a few minutes walk, from there another ten minutes back to the flat. It’s just minuscule droplets of water; you’re not sitting in a damp cell half-naked and half-starved. It’s just precipitation… Focus on the steeple, those golden statues… or are they angels? Cherubs, most likely.  _

Sherlock focused all his visual and mental powers on those golden cherubs, trusting John to lead him forward safely, avoiding any obstacles. As they drew closer, he saw they were indeed cherubs, beautifully crafted. Each had an arm bent above their head as if they were holding up the dome on top of the steeple. 

Once they were at the foot of the church, and Sherlock no longer had his point of focus he felt his chest begin to tighten up again. His heart hammered so fast that it made him lightheaded and dizzy, With his heart pounding so loud it was all he could hear, drowning out his desperate attempts to stay in the moment, not lose himself to the horror of his memories, He searched frantically for another focal point down but much busier street York Terrace W. But his vision narrowed too far, he couldn't concentrate. The slick stone footpath and buildings were overwhelming him; it was too much, his brain overloaded with stimuli. 

His vision swam, and he dug the fingernails of his right hand into his palm trying to use the pain to ground himself. He wasn’t safe, needed to be safe, couldn’t get away, couldn’t move… frozen as the fear stole his last remaining ability to process. A soft sob escaped his lips and he felt his eyes grow hot as the first tears slipped down his cheek. Then, John was there.

_ John….  _ Sherlock half sighed half sobbed as John moved to stand directly in front of him. He placed his free hand on the side of Sherlock’s face and pressed a feather-light kiss to his lips. 

“I’m right here. Talk to me. What’s wrong.” 

“Rain… the water… everything is all grey, wet stone…. I.. it's too much...” Sherlock’s voice ghosted out, hardly audible above the sounds of people and vehicles.

“Do you want to keep going?” John’s thumb brushed along his cheekbone, and Sherlock nodded once _. I’ve made it this far, I can make it another ten minutes, I hope. _

“Right, remember the breathing exercise I taught you?” Sherlock nodded, “Good, we’ll do it together. Count to three as you breathe in, then six as you breathe out. I’ll use my watch, two full minutes.” 

John did not remove his hand as they stood there; he just twisted his wrist a little to see his watch. John didn’t seem to care that they were blocking the path for a small group of tourists. Instead, he simply focused on Sherlock and his watch, ticking off two minutes as he helped Sherlock re-center himself, then gently patted Sherlock’s cheek when the time was up. Sherlock gave him a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes, but John nodded in acknowledgment of what it meant.

_ Next landmark. we're less than a mile from home. Logically I know the rain cannot hurt me. My amygdala has hijacked my stress responses, flooded my system with adrenaline and cortisol. I need to ride it out until I can manage the effects. _

He focused on the trees as they walked. Using every third tree as his focal point. He could feel John’s eyes on him as they carefully made their way through the steady stream of early afternoon shoppers. With Madame Tussauds just down the end of the street, the area was packed with tourists, out to get the best of their trip to London, weather be damned. 

As they neared the museum, he felt John’s focus shift. He knew his lover was looking for tactical places to duck inside should the weather worsen. 

About halfway down the street, Sherlock realised that using the trees isn't working. They were too alike, and his mind was slipping into the darkness where images of water dripping down his cell attempted to become the main focal point. He shook his head like an Etch A Sketch, trying to remove the image from his field of vision. 

_ I need to distract myself.  _

“John… you received an email today, one that upset you.” Sherlock swallowed, his throat tight and voice tense. 

“Sort of.” John’s voice was equally as tense but Sherlock found it hard to deduce whether it was because of the email, or the panic attack he was currently fighting off.

“So, you admit it upset you?” 

“I got an email from an old army mate; I haven't seen him in years. If he does come to London, like it was implied, I do  _ not _ want to run into him.” John shut his mouth quickly and made a noise of pure frustration as if he’d said too much or given away some important detail. However, if he had done so, Sherlock wasn’t able to piece together _ yet _ , which bit was important.

“Reasons?” Sherlock caught sight of the next tree, fixed his eyes on the trunk in one last desperate attempt.

“My life is better now, being away from his drama. He’s a narcissist, and honestly, I have nothing to say to him.” 

“I’m a narcissist.” Sherlock pointed out, then growled as his eyes slid from the tree and began to wander over the streets, at the water rushing down the gutters.

“Compared to him, you’re an angel.” John squeezed his hand, and Sherlock could feel his partner watching him, waiting to be told what he needed next.

“Madame Tussauds,” his voice weak and cracking. John just made a small noise of confirmation deep within his throat, and kept walking. The museum entrance was crowded with people queuing in the rain for their turn at viewing the famous wax statues. Home was a seven-minute walk from the museum. Just as he hoped he could make it, the heavens opened up and unleashed a heavy downpour.

Sherlock managed nearly a dozen steps until the sound of his own heart beating in his ears was replaced by the sound of rushing water. Water dripped down the buildings, coating every surface with a slick wet gleam, dripping and hissing with an unbearable dissonance. 

“John… the water.” Sherlock closed his hand in an unsteady white-knuckled grip on John's coat sleeve. “It… my cell… the hall.” 

John immediately understood and Sherlock hazily realised his brilliant partner was thinking through their list of options. Due to the rain, there were no cabs in sight, so they needed a place to seek refuge. He saw John’s eyes darting around at the storefronts, looking for their best option.

Sherlock felt his breathing quickly become erratic, his body uncontrollably trembling. His knees began to wobble and he knew he was close to collapse but when he tried to take a step forward, his feet wouldn’t move, as if glued to the pavement. After a moment, John’s oddly distorted voice reached him, sounding as if he was underwater.

‘This way, Mario’s,” and let John’s hand drag him to their destination.

As John pulled him down the street, weaving them around shoppers and tourists alike, Sherlock could feel his own tears mixing with the rainwater on his face. He fleetingly wondered if anyone found the pair of them strange, holding hands and dashing down the street.  
  
Flashes of shops and people in brightly colored clothing faded, until all he could see was gray walls that defined his experience in Serbia. The buildings on either side of the street became the walls of his prison wet with seeping moisture and mould. John’s gentle, but firm grip on his hand faded to the rough callous handling of the guards as they dragged him by a convenient limb out of his cell and down the rough floor. The smell of wet stone overpowered his senses, listening to the heavy tramp of the combat boots while his battered body scraped against the grit and dirt as they pulled him along.

A small part of his brain tried to tell him that his feet were clad in shoes, that he was  _ standing _ not being dragged, but the sense memory of his heels roughly scraping across the floor was too real. He fought back the scream building in his throat, knowing and dreading what would come next. Dragged deeper into the prison, into the mouldiest, wettest, dankest room of the facility, chained up, and beaten. Each drop of rain on his face became sweat or tears, he never could tell, as his weak body was punished over and over.

Though he knew, in reality, his feet were firmly planted on a London street, he felt the memory of being dragged down that hall by his arms, his bare heels scraping against the rough floor. The occasional water droplet splatter against the floor hitting him. He remembered his screams, remembered the way his chest filled with fear when they came to fetch him.

A hand on his shoulder made him flinch and he swung a fist in the direction of the person trying to pull him into the room where unspeakable things would happen to him until he passed out. But a firm hand caught the fist, and he whimpered.  _ They’ll hurt me more, for fighting back. Why do I always do that? Stupid, stupid….  _

“Sherlock…”

John’s voice came to him softly and far away. He cried out, trying and failing to reach out for his friend. His wrists were firmly restrained…. _ The manacles will be next… _

Struggling to break free from the place his mind had imprisoned him in, his body overwhelmed, frozen in anticipation of yet another beating. Unexpectedly the sensation of a firm, but kind hand putting pressure on his shoulder, urging him to sit down. His knees gave out, he let out a startled cry when he landed on soft cushioned kindness and not the expected concrete floor.

_ Have they finally found a new way to torment me? The electric chair, perhaps?  _ Sherlock whimpered but didn’t fight as his wrists were gently guided forward placing his forearms on something solid. Expecting straps next, holding him in place, surprised when instead his wrists were released and the gentle pressure on his right shoulder was back. A strong finger, a thumb, was gently sliding across his shoulder in an attempt to...  _ To what? Comfort me? _

Then a voice he recognised as John’s voice began to speak. He couldn’t make out the words at first, just listened to the kind and merciful tone of the man he loved more than anything. His focus shifted, away from the walls of the room that brought him so much pain. He could still hear the rain, hitting a window, and the street outside, but it was beginning to lose its grip over him John gently whispered directly into his ear. 

“Sherlock, darling man, open your eyes.” John’s voice was soft, calming, it sounded warm and inviting. So unlike the voices of his prisoners, and so enticing that he did just that, he opened his eyes. After a moment of blinking, adjusting to the dim lighting and his surroundings, he found himself sitting inside a small restaurant. John was standing directly beside him, one hand on his shoulder and lines of deep concern etched over his features.

_ That’s John’s hand on my shoulder, not my tormentor.  _ Sherlock’s brain supplied after a few moments. He blinked away the tears and looked up at John who was, using his body to shield him as best he could from curious eyes. 

“Sit here a moment, I’ll fetch you something to drink, then we’ll hail a cab back to the flat, yeah?” John offered, but Sherlock placed a hand on John’s. Silently asking him to stay with him, for just a moment longer. John gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze then pulled up a chair so he could sit close beside him. 

“How can I help?” John asked a moment later, taking one of Sherlock’s hands in both of his on the table.

“Where am I?”

“Mario’s, Allsop Place, London, England. It’s a little Italian fast food place, Mario’s that is. Food is mediocre, but it was the quietest place I could think of.” John gently provided the information. Sherlock silently repeated his location to himself until he felt the walls of his prison slip further and further away until they faded back into nothing more than a terrible memory. They sat there, hand in hand while Sherlock focused on his breathing, and on acclimating to his surroundings. 

“A drink would be nice,” Sherlock’s tongue felt heavy as he spoke, looking at John with a slight nod, letting him know it would be okay for him to step away from his side. His heart rate was still too fast, and he knew that having a drink to focus on would be a welcomed distraction. Even if he did nothing more than chew on the straw. 

“Be back in a moment.” John brought Sherlock’s hand up to his lips and pressed a soft kiss against his knuckles, then went up to the cashier to place their order. 

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on John as his doctor maneuvered around the two other patrons and made his way to the front counter to place their order. He only allows himself to see John whose left hand is clenching and unclenching at his side. Sherlock can’t help feeling the prickle of guilt that he’s the cause of distress in his partner. John exchanges a few words with the teenager behind the counter, stepping to the side where he fills two cups with soda while he waits for their order.

_ Hurry, John… Whatever else it is you ordered isn’t important. I need you. Please…  _

Sherlock hears the rain hitting the window behind him, the sound makes his skin crawl and his fight-or-flight response begins to kick in. 

_ I’m not tied down, I could make a run for it. Finally, be free. _

Sherlock was beginning to seriously debate the merits of running when John started walking towards their table. He was hampered by having to juggle two cups and a tray overfilled with chips. Catching the scent of John’s shampoo as his doctor leans over the table, the familiar cherished scent helps ground him. It reminds him of where he is, and he repeats the name of the shop over and over in his head until John makes a slight sound to get his attention, even as their feet touch beneath the table.

The steady presence of John, simply being near him with a part of their bodies connected, gives Sherlock the energy he needs to reach out for the flimsy paper cup. John has already placed a straw through the lid for him, so Sherlock bends down, rather than trusting his quivering hands to hold it up steadily, and places his lips around the straw. 

“I wish…” Sherlock began after taking a sip of the fizzy liquid, “I could turn it off. Remember Baskerville, how frightened I was, John?” Sherlock doesn’t wait for John to speak, simply continues to speak haltingly between unsteady sips. “The images my brain supplied during my panic just now, even that stimulant they had formulated wouldn’t have had the capability to produce such vivid fabrications in my mind. A murderous glowing hound based off of legends and fairytales is one thing… But to relive the worst moment of your life, that is quite something else.”

Not trusting himself to speak further without losing what little composure he had inside the crap restaurant, Sherlock tears his eyes away from the center of the table and looks up at his partner. He’s still bent low over the table but he tilts his head up slightly so he can get a clear view of John’s face. His brain automatically deducts what his eyes take in.

_ Lines around his eyes. Brows are arched, creases on his forehead indicate concern and worry. His lips are pursed, meaning he’s unsure what to say but desires to comfort me. What does he see when he looks at me? Does he notice my rapid breathing, my pounding heart? The way my hands won't stop trembling? Is he aware that I’m too afraid to pick up this cup, fearing I won't have the strength to hold it?  _

Looking once more at John, and at the worry emanating off his partner, he decides that yes, John does in fact see all of that. He’s a skillfully trained doctor, of course, he would see that. 

_ John can read human emotions the way he could read a crime scene. While I’m trying to solve a murder, John Watson would be the one to save a life.  _

“I wish I’d known or thought about it. I wouldn’t have taken you outside with the weather like this. Let’s get a cab the rest of the way home, yeah?” John was more than sympathetic. The worry lines extending across his brow told Sherlock of the guilt his lover was placing on himself. Ironic, that they would both blame themselves for this situation, but not at all surprising. Despite his own dismal state Sherlock needed to relieve John of that feeling.

“This was  _ not _ your fault, John.” Sherlock reached over the table in a surprising burst of energy and grasped John’s hand with all of his strength. All that ever mattered was, of course, John. “You offered me a cab, you offered, remember?”  _ Remember, John. I need you to remember. You saw the signs, even if you didn’t know exactly what they would lead to. You know yourself that feelings of anxiety are unpredictable.  _

“I remember.” John nodded curtly, and the lines eased, even if only a little, “But let me get you home, quickly and safely. I can see you’re still struggling. I am well aware of the signs. Your eyes are dilated, your breathing is far too erratic, your hands won't stop trembling which is a sign that your instincts are telling you to curl into a ball. Please, Sherlock, let me call a cab.”

“Alright, but I want a chip.” 

He picked out a random chip and popped it into his mouth. John pulls his mobile out of his pocket, frowns at it, then calls for a cab. They spend a few minutes while waiting, nibbling on the chips. 

Reaching out, Sherlock and John’s fingers touch over the same chunky chip. Sherlock makes a show of snagging it before John had a chance. John kindly made a show of being annoyed and the normalcy of the moment bolstered Sherlock’s courage. When the cab arrives the chips are half gone, they leave the rest discarded on the table.

“Wait here, I’m going to see if the driver has an umbrella.” John stood slowly, making certain his chair didn’t scrape audibly against the tiled floor and gently patted Sherlock’s shoulder as he ducked outside into the downpour. Returning with an umbrella in hand, John angles it facing it into the wind to prevent the worst of the gusts from hitting them as they bustle into the cab.

“Where to, fellas?” The cabbie asked, John provided the address, handed him twenty quid saying “Fast as you can mate, and keep the change,” then settled himself beside Sherlock. Seeking mutual comfort, both men leaned into each other, the stress lines on John’s face softening as their shoulders touch. John reached out and placed his hand on Sherlock’s thigh. With a soft sigh, Sherlock allowed himself the small comfort of holding John’s hand in the back of the cab.

“Uh, driver? Could I borrow your umbrella again, just to the front door?” John was asking, as they slid to a halt. The driver grunted out something that John took as an agreement. John stepped out, opened the umbrella, and held it out encouragingly for Sherlock.

_ I have five seconds tops, of being outdoors, even if the door is locked. Then John can shut our door, and I’ll be safe, we’ll be safe.  _

Sherlock gathered what little courage and resolve he could, put one foot out on the pavement, and took the proffered umbrella. He was expecting John to stay by his side the entire time, but his friend surprised him by dashing to the front door, unlocking it, and throwing it open moments before Sherlock himself reached the first step up inside. 

“Good man.” John kissed Sherlock on the cheek, helped him over the last step, and inside where it was dry then returned the umbrella posthaste before closing the door, shutting the outside world away. 

“Can you make it up the stairs? Or do I need to see if I can still carry you.” 

“I can make it, though if you wish to show off, you’re welcome to carry me.” 

“Oh…. you tit.” John’s laugh helped to ease some of Sherlock’s anxiety. It felt so right, so perfect to see that lopsided grin on John’s face.

“Well, then you get your arse up the stairs yourself.” 

Once up in their lounge, John shut and locked both doors that led in from the hall to their flat, then went to Sherlock’s side.

“Can I get you out of these wet things? Into bed where I can warm you up? Or would you prefer to sit by a fire?” John stepped close enough that he could reach out and touch Sherlock, but he waited patiently for Sherlock’s consent.

Sherlock gave John one small nod of assent, “Bed, please.”

Compassionate fingers deftly unwound the scarf from around Sherlock’s neck, then the weight of his coat was lifted off of his shoulders. Next Sherlock watched as John’s fingers softly plucked at the buttons of his suit and shirt. Sherlock didn’t care where his clothing fell, or if his shirt would get wrinkled. 

All that mattered was John. John’s presence was like the lone beacon of light shining out of the lighthouse over a stormy sea, guiding him back home to safety. Simply having John by his side gave Sherlock peace of mind, the knowledge that he wasn’t alone enough to help calm his racing mind. John Watson had always been his conductor of light. He’d always managed to ask the right questions to get Sherlock thinking. Now, he was throwing warmth into that light, stimulating not only his mind but his heart. He watched as John meticulously removed each bit of wet fabric until he was left standing in only his socks and pants. 

“Let me get your blanket, love.” As the weight of the blanket, John had so wisely purchased settled around his shoulders, “Come on, to bed with you. Do you want pyjamas?” 

“No, this is quite excellent, John.” Gathering the blanket more tightly around himself. “Bed sounds most welcoming, but only if you’ll join me.”

“Try stopping me” 

John slipped out of his own wet coat, kicked his shoes off, and shimmied out of his own clothing, leaving it to fall on the floor. Only then did he slide a hand under the weighted blanket, so he could take Sherlock by the hand before guiding him through their flat to the bedroom. The closed locked door became one more barrier between them and the outside world. 

“Hold on, love,” John said as he hurried forward and pulled the covers back, then nodded “in you get.” 

Sherlock gratefully slid in, making sure there was room for John to fit beside him. Saying “Roll over, love, let me cuddle up, get you nice and warm.” 

John gently took the weighted blanket from him, then a pleasant weight settled over Sherlock as his fiance pulled their duvet up over their bodies then added  _ his _ blanket on top of them. Creating a cocoon of warmth, with the familiar weight that helped ground him. John settled an arm over Sherlock’s side, pressing his body firmly into Sherlock’s back, providing heat and comfort in equal amounts. Sherlock’s mind turned from daunting thoughts and echoes of rain against cold stone, to how the man beside him was able to manifest such strength and tenderness at the same time. 

“You know... you don’t always have to be brave,” John said in a hushed tone, his breath warm against Sherlock’s neck. 

“What do you mean?” Sherlock’s voice ghosted out. His throat felt choked with all the terror he had struggled to keep contained.

“I mean, Sherlock,” John’s lips brushed against the nape of Sherlock’s neck sending chills down his spine, “You’re allowed to cry. You’re allowed to be angry, to yell, to feel violated. Let me be your strength. I won't let go, I’ll be right here… stop disregarding your emotions, face them.” 

“John…”    


His name came out as a sob. Sherlock's shoulders began to quake as the first wave of emotional turmoil boiled out of Sherlock. John just pressed his face more firmly against the nape of Sherlock’s neck and pressed his hand tighter against Sherlock’s chest. Slotting his knees in behind his lovers, he held tight as the tremors changed to full-body shudders.

A sound so hauntingly full of pain ripped its way out of Sherlock’s throat. It was so mournful, so desperate that it nearly brought John back to the battlefield. But as promised, he remained strong as his lover finally let himself express all the anguish he had been carrying.

John whispered soft words of encouragement as Sherlock gave into the grief he’d been holding back for so long. Other than Serbia, and once at home (when Sherlock thought John wasn’t watching), he’d never seen Sherlock cry over his ordeal.

“It’s okay to cry, Sherlock.” John murmured, getting his lips as close to the back of Sherlock’s ear as he could. “Crying releases oxytocin and endorphins. These chemicals, especially mixed together, make people feel good.” He rested the weight of his face against the back of Sherlock’s hair, momentarily lifting his hand off of Sherlock’s chest to gently brush away a few curls.

“There are different emotional reasons to cry, and somehow our bodies know  _ which _ trigger we’re going through. Let your walls down, my love, give in. I promise you I’ll be right here beside you, keeping you safe. Let your feelings out, and allow your body release.”

John felt it when it happened when Sherlock’s walls dropped for what possibly was the first time in years. At least since his last drug binge, certainly. Sherlock’s body went frighteningly still for too long. Then he let out a gut wrenching hoarse scream into the pillow. 

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, screamed again, a full cathartic release that eased into shuddering gasps. Sherlock allowed himself to crumble in John’s arms. After the first few sobs had ripped themselves from his chest, from his very soul, he held onto John’s arm as if it were his lifeline and he was a drowning man. 

_ Everything I went through was to save this man.  _ The hot sting of tears burned as he forced himself to remember If there were ever a time to come to terms with what had happened in Serbia, it was now, while John was beside him. Sherlock found himself talking in a haunted and broken voice, bringing John’s hand up so he could press his lips against its warmth. 

“I would do it again if it meant protecting you.” 

“Hmm… Do what, love? ”

“Serbia, the cell... Knowing you were alive, that Moriarty hadn’t shot you, that’s all that kept me alive those long weeks. Every beating my body took, meant you were alive.”

“I would have gladly switched places with you, Sherlock, if I had known  _ you _ were alive.” 

“You couldn’t know, though… Your grief had to be real, I had no doubt that you were being watched, the man I killed the day before my imprisonment, he was the last of the network.”

Sherlock barked out a horse laugh then continued.

“I was so close, so very close to getting clear. But I got cocky and didn't account for other players until some militia found me. I don’t even know who  _ they _ were working for. They simply thought I was a spy, someone working against them. To this day I still don’t know if they were connected to the network or just an incredible case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” 

“Sherlock….”  _ How horrifying for him, to go from thinking he was in the clear and could return home, to that place. _ John’s heart ached, and he wished, not for the first time, he’d known. Maybe if Sherlock had been allowed someone to watch his back, nothing would have happened.  _ Or, we both would have been imprisoned, tortured, and probably killed when they discovered we didn’t have any secrets worth knowing.  _

“John… they…” Sherlock shuddered against him with a low moan as Sherlock forced himself to say what they had done to him.

“Did they…” John felt his heart beat faster as a new fear that hadn't crossed his mind came to him. “Was… there sexual abuse, Sherlock?”

“What? No… they found other ways to torture me.”  _ There I’ve said it…  _ “They beat me, they cut me, they burned me. They kept me awake for two days once, beating me each time I fell asleep. John, it was horrendous.” 

John said nothing, just pressed a firm kiss against the back of his neck, and continued to hold him close.

Sherlock allowed himself time to feel the hatred, the fear, the leftover emotional pain that caused his day to day life to be filled with turmoil. He relished each tear as it slipped down his face, he poured every ounce of hatred he held towards his captors into each tear and soon found that all he had left in him was a hunger for healing.

“It’s time to fix this. I don’t want to live in fear.”

“Okay.”

John’s answer was enough. With that one word, Sherlock knew that John would be there by his side, no matter what steps he needed to take. He also was aware that John would not waiver, no matter how many times those steps were backwards instead of forwards. He wasn’t alone anymore, no longer a desperate man wondering if he’d die tomorrow. 

No, it was time to return to being Sherlock Holmes, now the fiance to the best man the world had ever produced. He was ready to heal, so he could live a life of love and adventure beside his blogger.  
  
The safety of John’s embrace allowed Sherlock to relax and it became easier to process and file his thoughts away in their appropriate rooms inside his mind palace. He carefully locked away the memories of his time in Serbia. Every fiber of Sherlock’s being wanted to delete those horrid memories, but the wounds were still too fresh.  _ I’m not sure which would be worse. Deleting the events that gave me my scars, or waking up and wondering how I got them.  _ Feeling a shudder creep over him he nuzzled back against John’s body. John, his brilliant John, held him close.

_ I did it all for you, John… everything I did was for you. _ Sherlock placed one of his hands over John’s letting his fingertips trace mindlessly over John’s knuckles.  _ I would do it again if I had too, your life matters so much more than mine. Ohhh…. _ _ Is that why you won't tell me why the message from your army ‘mate’ upset you? Are you doing what I did? Trying to protect me?  _ The realization hit Sherlock like a brick to the face.  _ What are you protecting me from, John? Army mate, but clearly not someone from one of your tours. You’ve told me before, almost everyone you knew from Afghanistan is dead, and you’ve never mentioned anyone from your first tour with any sort of affection.  _

Using every ounce of self-discipline he could muster, he managed to not turn around and demand answers from John. He knew his friend well enough to know that John was if anything, a stubborn man. If he weren’t ready to talk, there would be no pestering him until he let something slip. He could be as tight-lipped about something as he was free to praise Sherlock for his brilliance.  _ I’ll have to watch closely for any clues when he’s ready, he’ll come to me. He always does.  
_   
“Sherlock?” John asked after a long moment of silence.

“Mmm?”

“We should set up a code, for when you feel something is triggering your PTSD. A system that will allow me to assess how extreme the situation is, while not alerting anyone else. That way, if we’re out we still have an open line of communication.”

“Everyone loves to talk about the weather,” noted Sherlock, after a moment of consideration. The idea was a good one, and it only took Sherlock a few seconds to put together some options.

“Something simple. If you notice I am in distress before I do, you could ask me about the weather. Likewise, if I notice it before you do, I’ll ask you if you’ve seen the forecast. Simply shake your head, and my responses will determine my emotional state.”

“That sounds plausible, what do you have in mind?” 

“Well,” Sherlock said as he rolled over, so he was facing John. “If I reply ‘It’s a nice day’, that means I am okay.”

“Mmhmm.” John took advantage of Sherlock’s new position and began wiping the last few tears from Sherlock’s face.

“Mild means I’m frightened and need to be taken out of whatever situation I’m in. For example, when you offered me the cab just outside of Regent’s Park, I should have accepted and we could have avoided this whole experience.” 

“Right, mild means you’ve noticed something is upsetting you, even if you don’t know  _ what _ the cause is, and we should make our excuses and leave?” John clarified, settling his hand deep in Sherlock’s matted curls.

“Exactly, and if I say something about it getting cloudy, that means I’m about to lose control, as I did just now.” Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, relishing the way a simple touch from John brought so much comfort.

“At which point, I will use every resource within my possession to get you home, where I will hold you until things are better.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered softly then released a shaky sigh.

“For what, Sherlock?” 

“For caring, and not judging me. For not calling me a freak, or telling me I’m broken.”  _ In fact, the look you used to give Donovan when she called me freak was one of the first things I loved about you. _

“Of course, Sherlock. I love you.” 

_ Those three simple words… They make me feel invincible. _

“I love you too, John.” Sherlock closed the distance between them and pressed in for a long kiss. John sighed and tightened his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. The kiss was needy and emotional, wordlessly expressing everything they felt and had not yet said.. John pulled away just as his cock began to twitch with interest, and let out a sympathetic chuckle when Sherlock made a desperate noise.

“Later, love, I’ll ravish you until you’ve forgotten all about today.”

“Why later?” Sherlock whined, chasing John’s lips for another kiss, this one far more passionate than the last. 

“Because, when I called for the taxi I checked my missed texts. I had one from the jeweler.” Smiling John pulled away from the kiss and watched as Sherlock processed the news and what it implied.

“So, they’re…” Sherlock asked hopefully.

“Ready, I could go get them, right now, if you wanted.”

“Yes, go!” Sherlock mimed pushing John out of bed, which just made the smile on his face grow wider and more brilliant.

“I could pop out, pick up our rings, a bottle of wine and something to eat, we could spend the evening in. Then oh… I don’t know, go to bed early?” John winked and it sent a shiver of anticipation down Sherlock’s spine.

“Fine, but I want fish and chips,” Sherlock demanded making John grin.   
  
Bundled back up in his clothes and slightly damp coat, John kissed Sherlock goodbye then braced himself to head out into the spring storm. When he’d put his trousers back on his mobile had slipped out the pocket and landed on the floor.

“You’ve got a text,” Sherlock said as he picked it up, and as he handed it over.

“Mmm, what?” John asked, forcing himself to remain calm. It took all his willpower to calmly reach out for the mobile and not snatch it from Sherlock’s hands. 

_ Is it more suspicious if I ignore the text, or check it in front of him? I’ve never hidden my phone from him…  _ Deciding it best to check it now, he held the phone at an angle that mostly blocked Sherlock’s vision. It appeared to be spam, just a text from an unknown number, the sole contents were a link. John instantly knew what he’d find if he clicked the link and had to fight the urge to drag Sherlock to their bedroom, pack a bag for each of them, then book the next flight out of Heathrow.

Instead, he just shrugged, stuffed it casually in his pocket, trying his hardest not to let his hands tremble. 

“Looks like spam to me. Now give me a kiss before I leave.”

“Aright. Hurry back.” Sherlock, still mostly naked and wrapped in his blanket bent down to kiss him, then added, “I’ll light the fire.”

Now, alone inside a cab where even Mycroft would have a hard time tracking his text message on CCTV, John opened up his messages. He opened the suspicious text, and with a trembling finger clicked on the link. 

The link brought him to a webpage. The page was simple, just a picture of a crouching panther on a tree branch, muscles coiled as if it were ready to pounce. The image of the creature was overlaid by a semi-transparent countdown. Just below the countdown were four letters, flashing ominously against the otherwise still image.

**_SOON_**   
  
John knew what the countdown meant, it was a courtesy countdown. If a colleague was instructed to turn against another colleague, current or former, in _the business_ they would give their acquaintance 24 hours to get their affairs in order. John had sent a countdown or two in his career within the Jungle, and the image of the panther was further proof that it would be West, not Sholto, after him. 

_ Though, Sholto is certainly pulling the strings, if the “S” at the end of the email is any indication. 24 Hours until West, also known as The Panther, is allowed to act. But the countdown hasn’t started yet… so, what does it mean?  _ John sighed and tried to imagine how Sherlock would handle this. 

_ “It’s obvious, John, the timer hasn’t started. Either they are not prepared to act just yet, or they thought more highly of you than you realize. Regardless, his hesitation proves that Sholto doesn’t want to kill you, but my brother reactivating the Lion ruffled feathers and they cannot allow that to happen. What kind of message would that send?” _

Sherlock’s voice rang clear in John’s head. While he knew it  _ wasn’t _ Sherlock speaking to him, he did know that it was the more logical side of his brain, manifesting itself through the most logical person he knew. Not for the first time, either. During Sherlock’s absence, it had been Sherlock’s voice that had kept him from killing himself, and following his best friend to the grave. 

_ What are the facts, Watson?  _ John let his head fall back against the hard seat and closed his eyes,  _ Sholto is angry, but won't contact me directly, and not for lack of knowing how to contact me. He’s the Mycroft to The Jungle, the puppeteer, the organizer. He won't get his hands dirty, but he’ll order others to do the dirty work for him. Pierce West, known to myself and the rest of the Jungle as the Panther, has been tasked with… with what? My removal, most likely if I’m to go by his expertise when we were together.  _

John opened his eyes and craned his neck so he could loop up at the rooftops through the window.  _ He’s probably out there now, knowing him. West was never one to sit around if there was work to be done.  _

It was futile to look for a sniper on a random rooftop during a taxi ride in the rain, and John knew it. So he spent the remaining drive to the jewelers removing any evidence of the text from his phone. He knew that, when it was time for the countdown to start, they’d make contact again.

When the cabbie stopped out in front of the jeweler, he asked the driver to wait then hurried into the shop. While he didn’t feel like he was in immediate danger, John didn’t linger on the pavement, just in case West was nearby, and his trigger finger got itchy.

In case he  _ was  _ being watched, John did his best to act normally inside the shop. He waited patiently as the clerk went back to retrieve their order, inspecting the rings when they were shown to him. John stored them carefully in the inside pocket of his jacket, feeling the bulk of the single case directly over his heart. As he climbed back inside the waiting cab, he found himself wondering,  _ If West did shoot now, would he go for the head or the heart? _

Once again, when the cabbie stopped, John asked him to wait. The rain had picked up, so he flipped his collar up before stepping out into the storm. Inside he discovered that Sherlock had, of course, timed their order perfectly. Their order was being wrapped up as he walked in.. He paid, accepted the fragrant parcel, then spent the drive back to Baker Street clearing his mind of any worries he might have. He and Sherlock had, at least tonight. 

_ Chances are, they won't reach out again until tomorrow, or what would have been the point of “Soon”? So… we have o _ _ ne night, to enjoy our rings and each other’s company. I can decide what actions to take in the morning. Perhaps I can enlist Mycroft’s aid, though if I tell him, I’ll certainly have to tell Sherlock.  _ John grimaced and squashed down the thought that echoed in his head,  _ I should tell Sherlock. He deserves to know.  _

_ I’ll tell him, just not tonight.  _ John thought as the cab stopped just outside 221b. He handed the driver his fare, patted his breast pocket to ensure the rings were still there, then picked up the takeaway. He looked up, once out on the pavement, and saw Sherlock standing at the window looking down. His face lit up when he saw John, but for the split second before he’d been spotted, Sherlock’s face had looked worried.

_ He’s just shaken from earlier, _ John told himself as he lowered his head and abandoned the rain and potential danger for the warmth and safety of their flat. But a small, paranoid section of his brain wondered if Sherlock knew something was wrong. 

_ I’ll have to double-check and make sure I deleted that email.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooooooooooooooooooo.... thoughts? 
> 
> What do you think is gonna happen?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story, part two of The Jungle, now sits finished in my google docs. You can look forward to the following two chapters to be posted over the next week or so. ;)

John woke early the next morning. Stifling a yawn he looked over at Sherlock and couldn’t help but smile at his partner. Sleep had erased the stress of yesterday from his face, it left him looking softer and younger. He was an echo of the man he’d been before he’d let the world think him dead. John had to resist the urge to brush a lock of hair off of Sherlock’s forehead. Now would not be the time to wake him.

Sherlock snuffled in his sleep and rolled over. His right hand slipped out from underneath the blankets. A sparkle caught John’s eye and he sat transfixed as the dim light from the night light caught Sherlock’s engagement ring. He allowed himself a contented moment, watching his partner sleep, filling his memory with images of the night before when he’d given the ring to Sherlock.

***   
  


_ Sherlock was still unable to do much with his violin aside from tuning it or plucking a few harmonics from the strings due to his injury, so John had been surprised to hear music greet him as he entered the flat. Soft music wrapped around him as he rounded the landing, it was warm and slow, reminding him of promises to come. _

_ Entering the flat through the kitchen he peaked around the double wide door leading into the lounge and saw Sherlock simply standing by the window, violin and bow in hand as if he wanted to play. The music John could hear came from the mini ipod dock on the table. A song from before the fall, or another composer other than Sherlock?  _

_ “I’m back,” John called out, redundant as it was. They’d made eye contact just moments before while John was still outside in the rain, and he hadn’t exactly been quiet coming up the stairs.  _

_ He’d hardly managed to put their dinner down on the table when Sherlock, violin still in hand, joined him and crowded him against the wall. _

_ “Do you have them?” Sherlock pressed in closer, so close that John felt the violin dig into his hip as Sherlock tried patting his pockets, searching for the rings. _

_ “Yes, oi, give me a moment,” Laughing John had chased Sherlock back with a few swift kisses, and gained the upper hand when Sherlock’s hips met the table. “I have half a mind to make you eat first.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Won't eat, not until you’ve made a proper fiance out of me.” Now the tip of the bow was smacking John in the side as Sherlock patted his pocket with his other hand. John laughed and gently took the bow and instrument from Sherlock, placing them with care on the table. _

_ “Should I get down on one knee?” he’d asked as he took the box out of his breast pocket.  _

_ “Too slow,” Sherlock grumbled then let out a sigh as John’s lips found his for another languid kiss. _

_ “Well, then, Sherlock Holmes,” John ran his free hand over Sherlock’s spine and let out a breathy laugh. Pulling away he drank in the sight before him. In stark contrast to a few hours earlier, Sherlock was vibrating with positive energy. The hollow eyed look of sorrow and hopelessness had been replaced by eager longing. “Would you do me the honour of agreeing to marry me?”  _

_ “Oh god yes, now show me the ring.”  _

_ “Git,” laughing John took a step back and opened the box that held both their rings. Sherlock’s mouth fell open in a silent “oh” when his eyes fell on their rings.  _

_ “They’re perfect,” he whispered, reaching out to run his long index finger over the etching on his ring.  _

_ “Be even more perfect on your finger.”  _

_ He freed up his hands by placing the jewelry box down on the table, then he took Sherlock’s right hand in both of his and held it gently. “I believe I remember you saying you’d wear it on your right hand, until we’re married.”  _

_ “You remember correctly,” Sherlock purred and watched with glistening eyes as John brought his hand up to his lips. John kissed the ring finger on his right hand, then reaching to the jewelry box picked up Sherlock’s ring. Sherlock’s weren't the only eyes gleaming when John slipped the ring over his knuckle and watched as the ring slid into place.  _

_ “You next, John,” Sherlock spoke in a hushed awed tone as he gently plucked the remaining ring from its velvety slot inside the box. Reverently he picked up John’s right hand, not bothering to question if John wanted to wear it there, or on his left hand. He held his breath as he slipped the ring over the pad of John’s finger, and only remembered to breathe as it gently slid over his second knuckle and settled against the back of his finger. He twisted the ring, so the celtic knot was on top, then held his right hand up so it was hovering in the air beside John's. _

_ “Now everyone will know how much I love you,” John murmured as they both took time to admire the way the silver picked up the light in the room.  _

_ “And I you, John.” _

**

_ Sleep, my love. I have my future, no, our future to prepare for.  _

He slipped out of bed as quietly as he could, stepped into the bathroom to relieve himself and brush his teeth, then set about making tea. All the while imagining a clock hovering above his head, ticking away his last remaining hours of safety. Not knowing how long his meager bubble of safety would last was beginning to unnerve him. It would be one thing, if he could say for certainty that at two in the afternoon, West would be across the street in some empty flat, sending a bullet directly through his heart. That he could plan for, he could keep the curtains drawn, stay inside, or get there before West and turn the tables. 

Tea made, John settled himself at the table in the lounge that served as their desk. He checked his e-mail and was both frustrated and relieved to find nothing new. He found he didn’t have any missed calls, voicemails or texts either. 

_ Give me something! Anything!  _ John nearly pounded his fist against the wooden surface before he remembered he was trying to keep Sherlock asleep.  _ I should have put a sedative in his tea last night… No, I’m glad I didn’t. _

John let his train of thoughts wander from the situation at hand, to the lazy smile Sherlock had worn for hours after John had placed the silver ring on his right ring finger. He pulled himself from that line of thinking, before it turned into a deep desire to go curl back up in bed with Sherlock and confess everything to him.

_ Sherlock is too fragile right now.  _ A small voice told him from somewhere between his emotional thinking and logical thinking. It wasn’t  _ quite _ Sherlock’s voice, but it was close enough that it gave him pause.

John sat still, staring at the steam as it curled out of his mug. He fiddled with his mobile for a long while before deciding he had little choice. He drafted a text message, read over it three times, then hit send.

**_London is quite a Jungle. The West is particularly dangerous this time of year. I would rest easier, knowing the Lion’s den was safe._ **

_ Either Mycroft will understand, or he won't…  _ John sighed and pinched at the bridge of his nose, then deleted the text from his phone.  _ Mycroft got me into this mess, the least he can do is keep an eye on Sherlock.  _

After all the strings Mycroft had pulled to get Sherlock home, John had no doubt that Mycroft did, in fact, care about his little brother. If Mycroft were able to piece together the meaning of his text, which shouldn't be difficult for a Holmes, then John could at least rest easy knowing Sherlock would be taken care of.

He spent the next hour compiling a list of every fact he could remember about West. They’d been close once, but not in the traditional sense. Oh they’d swap stories over a pint after a job well done, but they were always stories regarding their assignments. 

_ Which is all I need to know… _ John smiled grimly at the list on his computer

_ Cold  
_ _ Emotionally disconnected on assignment  
_ _ Crack shot  
_ _ Chameleon  
_ _ Charming when needed  
_ _ Perfectionist  
_ _ West is capable of blending into any situation he’s placed in, regardless of the prevailing majority of race or gender around him. He uses his average frame to blend in, to appear non threatening. _

_ Name: Pierce West.  
_ _ Rank: Last I knew, Major. _ _   
_ _ Appearance: Always kept his hair shaved short, typically it is brown, but he’s been known to colour it.   
_ _ Eyes: Green. _ _   
_ _ Skin: Tanned, or it was last we saw of each other, current skin tone unknown.   
_ _ Height: A finger taller than me, possibly 5’8?   
_ _ Build: Current build, unknown, previously, muscular as if he were training for competitive sports.  
_ _ Specialties: Long Range accuracy, ability to blend in, can emotionally dissociate himself from his tasks. Meaning, he won't give a flying rat’s arse that his target is an old friend.   
_ _ Weaknesses: He isn’t smart. I was better at extractions because I can formulate new plans under pressure. West needs a play by play script to follow, which is why he was given the role as our sniper. Hot headed. Should I be captured, not killed outright, I need to get him angry. He’ll stop everything to argue with me, if I can push the right buttons.  _

John’s mobile buzzed softly against the table, startling him. Picking up the phone he felt his heart skip a beat as he read over the text.

**_Diogenes? -MH_ **

**_Won’t leave Sherlock._ **

**Speedy’s, ten minutes. -MH** __

He took a long sip of his tea, finishing most of it in one go, then let out a sigh and closed his eyes for a moment. The stress of the situation was settling home. Yesterday he’d thought he could ignore it, that Sherlock would be safer if he didn’t know. But John’s own subconscious had filled his dreams with scenarios that made his heart ache.

He’d dreamt of Sherlock, swan diving off of St. Bart’s. Of the months of grief while he was led to believe that Sherlock had killed himself. Then his dream took him to a London of the future, where John Watson no longer existed. Instead of seeing a single empty chair in 221b,  _ his  _ chair being the empty one this time, he saw a vacant flat. Then two gravestones, side by side. One black with gold lettering, solemnly declaring the final resting place of Sherlock Holmes. The other his, a simple grey stone with only his name chiseled into the surface. 

John brushed a tear from his eye, cleared his throat then checked the time. He printed off the document he’d been working on, stuffed the paper in his pocket. Pausing only a moment to delete the document from his computer, then found a piece of scrap paper and a pen.

_ “Sherlock, popped out to get some milk.”  _

He left the note on the table in the kitchen, opened the fridge and pulled out the milk. There was only a little left, but still he felt guilty as he dumped the contents down the drain.  _ When will you stop lying to him? Tell him the  _ **_truth!_ ** __

After double checking that the note was placed where Sherlock could spot it easily, he threw on some shoes and headed downstairs. Mr. Chatterjee was just unlocking the shop door when John gave him a little wave through the glass. The elderly owner smiled and pulled the door open for him.

“Ta,” John said, shaking off a chill as he entered, he hadn’t grabbed a jacket and the post dawn air was crisp.

“Early morning, eh?” Mr. Chatterjee asked as he shuffled towards the back of the cafe. “You’ll be wanting tea, I take it.” 

“Ta, two now, one when I leave. And, can I use that table?” John pointed to a table halfway into the cafe, just far enough away from the window that there was little chance, if he were being watched, of someone lip reading, and far enough away from the counter where he and Mycroft could talk quietly and not be overheard. 

John accepted the two paper cups of tea, brought them over to the table, then went back to fetch milk and sugar for the table. He didn’t know how Mycroft took his tea, or if he even drank tea, so he left the lid on one of the cups then began to fix his. 

Into his he added milk, gave it a stir, then took a small sip. A bell chimed and John looked up to see Mycroft enter. The man looked out of place in a small cafe like Speedy’s but he walked towards the table confidence shrouding him like a cloak. Mycroft sat, adjusted his suit jacket, then set about fixing his tea. He added two sugars, and a splash of milk, exactly how Sherlock took his tea, then looked up at John expectantly.

“I got word, Sholto isn’t happy.” John shrugged, as if this had been something they’d both expected. Which, on some level, John realized was true. Being reactivated, even for just one mission, would come with it’s own set of complications. He stared down at the ring on his right hand and felt a pang of guilt over meeting Sherlock’s brother in private, literally right under his nose. 

“Tell me everything,” Mycroft said simply, as if showing that he too had expected this.

So, John told him about the email, recited it word for word, putting an emphasis on the words that had been in italics. He told Mycroft about the timer and what it meant. How he assumed West was currently in London, preparing for when the countdown expired, allowing him his time to strike.Then he handed over the paper with what little information he knew about West. Mycroft skimmed over it, then folded it more neatly that John had before placing it inside his breast pocket.

“Have you told Sherlock?”

“Not… yet.” John sighed, placing an elbow on the table as he shifted uncomfortably. “But I don’t want to make the same mistake he made at Bart's. He and I, we’re a team. He went off without me, and it ended poorly. I just… need to know he’s safe, before I tell him. Not that it makes a difference.” 

“You and I have one goal in common, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said as he took a sip of his tea, “Sherlock’s safety is our number one concern. No offense to your own life.”

“None taken.” John replied, and he meant it honestly. His life meant nothing to him, aside from the knowledge that Sherlock would crumble to pieces if something happened to him. “Which is why I haven’t told Sherlock,” he confessed, ignoring Mycroft’s intense gaze.

“Why is that?” 

“He deserves to know, but…” John paused and let his eyes go unfocused. After a few moments of silence Mycroft nodded then filled what John had left unsaid.

“His mental state is too fragile. News that your life is in danger would threaten all progress he’s made to heal himself. He would insist on taking the case, he would push himself beyond what he can emotionally handle. My brother would put himself in the way of the bullet that had your name on it, if it came down to that.”   
  
“Erm,” John cleared his throat and nodded gently, “right, exactly. Mycroft, but listen, I can’t have him shot in our own flat, because West is too dense to know Sherlock’s silhouette from mine. Is there someplace we can go, a safehouse that I can claim is a holiday destination?”

“Baker Street will remain secure, possibly more so than any safe house I possess. As we speak I have a team sweeping every building on this block, and behind your flat as well. Anything that has a line of sight to your flat will be under surveillance for the immediate future. However, I cannot ensure that same safety all over London. Best I can do is have someone shadow either of you, if you go out. The expenditure for this operation is already substantial.” 

“I understand, and thank you.”  _ Home, we can stay home, _ John nearly collapsed as relief washed over him. Until he decided he had no other choice but to tell Sherlock, they could stay home and he could focus what little time he had left on helping Sherlock heal. “I won't tell him, for now.”

“You’ll let me know before you tell him.” It wasn’t a request, and John knew it. 

Collecting himself once more he nodded curtly, and fiddled with his paper tea cup. “I… don’t know what to do. My options are slim. I could pack us each a bag, take the next flight out of London, to anywhere, the destination won't matter, we’d never be able to stop moving, or settle down using our real names. For now, at least I can stay hidden inside 221b, while we… what? Negotiate? Or… I can draw him out.”

“Using yourself as bait?” Mycroft arched an eyebrow.

“Of course myself, I’m sure as hell not using Sherlock. Plus, it isn’t him they’re after. It’s me. They probably think I talked, that all their secrets are out.” 

“And what could we hope to achieve, if you used yourself as bait?”

“Well, if you and I work together, we could come up with a plan… or something…” Saying that outloud felt stupid, but it was the only hope John had. “One thing I know, Mycroft, is West is coming after me. How, I don’t know. We can’t even be sure of the  _ when. _ ”

“John, you worked with them before, do you have any idea when this countdown will start?” Though the question was asked gently enough, John heard the undertone of urgency. 

“Not really, no.” He looked at Mycroft and grimaced in a way of an apology. Then he quickly glanced out the glass storefront, making sure that Sherlock hadn’t wandered down to see what was taking him so long before he continued, “I had to send a few countdowns before, but there was never this… hesitation, for lack of a better word. This is not normal, this is a game of cat and mouse. But only this time the cat has let the mouse know they’ve placed the order for the cheese instead of simply putting it in the trap.”   
  
Mycroft let out a small breath through his nose, and it took John a moment to realize that the man sitting across from him was smirking. Not out of amusement, necessarily, but John found he couldn’t get the image of the old cartoon cat Tom, chasing the mouse Jerry around, in the end to be outwitted by the little mouse and he was certain that Mycroft saw the same scenario, if not depicted by cartoon animals. 

“I think it is safe to assume they’ll contact me again, when it does start ticking.” John added, going back to the issue at hand, “When it does, that’s when I’ll need help.”

“How can I help, John?” Mycroft took a small notebook and pen out of his pocket then looked up at John.

“You’ve already helped, just by making sure Sherlock is safe. But… if I can impose, I need your resources. I need  _ detail _ s on West. I need to know when he arrives in London, or if he’s already here. Honestly, I’ll take whatever information you can get on him. Mine is years old. Sholto will be more difficult, when he was my CO in Afghanistan, he had a bit of an accident, and went into hiding. I know he lives in England, but that’s it. I thought he was retired… hell, maybe he is and he’s doing this out of paranoia.” 

“How will I give this information to you… discreetly?” Mycroft inquired, not looking up from the notebook.

“Burner phone. I’ll pick one up today. My memory is better than I’m often given credit for, I can memorize what I feel important, and keep the phone clean.”

“If Sherlock finds the phone?”

John had thought about that, of course, and he still didn’t have the best answer. “For now, I can keep it hidden in my old room. I still go up there often enough, most of my clothes are still up there.So it won't be suspicious, as long as I am quick. I have an old medical text book that I hollowed out. Inside is a secure safe where I’ve kept a few valuables. To my knowledge Sherlock doesn’t know about it, or assumes I have something boring like spare ammunition stored inside.”

“That should do well for now.” Mycroft nodded thoughtfully, “However, allow me to provide the mobile, so we can make every step to ensure it is not being traced,” he glanced at his pocket watch then said, “If you pop out for lunch at exactly noon, I’ll have one of my men drop it inside your pocket. Don’t acknowledge the existence of it until you are safe inside your room.” 

“Ta.” John nodded, and sucked in a slow breath through his nose. 

“And West?” Mycroft asked as he wrote down a few notes, bringing the subject back to John’s old army mate, “you’re certain he’s behind this?” John nodded, and was relieved when Mycroft didn't question his reasoning further. “We’re assuming Sholto sent the email, so what brings West into all of this? Is he in Sholto’s debt, a lover perhaps?”

“Hardly. There was always something off about West. I think he enjoyed it, the killing. I don’t have any proof, but he was the first member to join our little gang of merry men. I think he came back from his first tour with a taste for violence.” 

“What makes you think that?” Mycroft glanced at his watch briefly, then went back to jotting notes down in his odd shorthand. 

“We’d chat, after a mission was completed, and the way he talked about pulling the trigger,” John shuddered, “he used a 50mm. At any distance, that caliber leaves a hole the size of a fist… He would go into detail about watching his target bleed out. And he’d have this gleam in his eyes. Mycroft it’s similar to the look Sherlock gets when he’s solved a case. I didn’t see it until later, and when I realized the look for what it was,  _ lust _ .”

“Interesting…” Mycroft made a few more notes, pocketed the notebook, then stood up. “I’m afraid you can’t afford any more time, John. It wouldn’t do for Sherlock to spot us together.” Mycroft drained the last dregs of tea then set the cup back down on the table. “Thank you for entrusting me with this information. Don’t forget, noon sharp.”

“Mycroft…” John stood, and offered the man his hand, “I hope I live through this, ‘cause frankly, I’d be honoured to have you as a brother in law.”

Mycroft took John’s hand in his, and gave it a firm shake. “John, I’ll do everything in my power to see that it happens.”

“Thank you.” John withdrew his hand, before it became awkward. Clearing his throat he looked around and asked, “Exit strategy?”

“You get yourself a fresh cup of tea, get one for my brother, and go upstairs. Once you’re upstairs, I’ll wait here for three minutes. That should give you time enough to lure Sherlock away from the windows. My driver is just down the street, out of sight, at the end of three minutes I’ll have him pick me up.” 

John followed Mycroft’s orders, and in short order was pushing their lounge door open with his hip. He was wondering how he would keep his pensive mood from showing on his face when he stepped inside and called out, “Sherlock, love? You awake?” 

He heard a small whimper from the sofa and shut the door quickly. The sight that greeted him pushed all thoughts of masking his emotions aside. Sherlock lay curled up on their sofa, all but his nose and a sliver of his upper face covered by his weighted blanket. John acted quickly. He placed both cups of tea on the coffee table, then knelt on the floor beside Sherlock’s head. Placing one hand on Sherlock’s face through the blanket he spoke in hushed tones.

“Love, talk to me. What happened?” images of Sherlock’s panic attack from yesterday flashed through his vision. He needed to help Sherlock through this before it got that bad, if it weren’t already too late.

“Woke up…” Sherlock whispered after nearly two minutes of silence, “you weren’t here, and my feet got dirty.” 

John wasn’t sure why it mattered that Sherlock’s feet got dirty, but that didn’t mean it didn’t matter to Sherlock. Something had obviously triggered this reaction, and he knew better than to question it. It had taken great effort on Sherlock’s part, just to speak that one sentence, so John knew he wouldn’t have wasted such an attempt on something that wasn’t important. 

“I’m here now.” John leaned in, careful not to crowd Sherlock against the sofa, and pressed a soft kiss to the tip of his nose. “I was just downstairs, I left a note. Did you see it?”

Sherlock shook his head, and John cursed himself for not leaving it in a more obvious place. Of course Sherlock would ignore the kitchen table, cuttered as it was with his science equipment.  _ I should have left it by my laptop, or on my pillow. _

“I’m going to get something to clean your feet, okay?” Sherlock nodded once, encouraged, John continued, “Wait here, I’ll be back in a moment, okay?” John waited a moment for a reply, but when it became evident that Sherlock either, wouldn’t or couldn’t reply he simply patted the side of Sherlock’s head then stood up. 

John was back at Sherlock’s side within five minutes. On the floor beside the sofa, just below Sherlock’s feet (which were still tucked beneath the blanket) he placed a small bucket. The bucket was filled halfway with warm water, with just enough of Sherlock’s body wash to give the water a milky haze. He had two clean flannels with him, he placed one of them into the sudsy water and the other on the coffee table. 

“Sherlock, love, give me a foot and we’ll get you cleaned up.” Gently sliding his hand under the folds of the blanket, John found one of Sherlock’s feet. Unsure of how to proceed without worsening things for Sherlock, he gently tapped on Sherlock’s heel and was able to coax Sherlock into sticking a foot out of the safety of his blanket. 

“When you’re able, tell me what happened.” John gently moved Sherlock’s foot so it stuck over the edge of the sofa. John gave the foot a once over, looking for dirt, or any clues he might use to piece together what had transpired to upset his partner. Sherlock’s foot appeared clean, but when John brushed his finger over the heel he felt a small amount of grit. 

_ Dust? Even if it is just dust, clearly it bothers him…  _ John had a vivid flashback to their reunion in Serbia. He’d found Sherlock cowering in the corner of a filthy cell, surrounded by the stench of human waste, covered quite literally head to toe in grime and blood. It didn’t take a genius to piece together that just a small amount of dust stuck to the bottom of his foot had reminded Sherlock of that state of existence as well. 

John brushed his fingers over the length of Sherlock’s foot, doing his best to remove what small amount of dust was still clinging to Sherlock’s skin. Then he reached inside the bucket and picked up the wet flannel. 

“Sherlock,” John squeezed the flannel out, letting the sound of water fill Sherlock’s senses, “I’ve got a wet flannel here, can I wash your feet? I don’t want to make things worse, so I need you to tell me yes or no.”

“Mmm..” Sherlock’s soft baritone mumble was just audible enough to reach John’s ears, but it was accompanied by a nod. 

“Thank you, it’s warm.” John brought the flannel up to Sherlock’s foot. He took care to clean every inch of skin, evening taking time to get in between each toe. When he felt the cloth was getting cold, he would submerge it back in the warm sudsy water, wring it out, and go back to his ministrations. John was through, in his washing, making sure to get each speck of dust and any visible flecks of dirt he could see. 

“How about the other one now, hmm?” Carefully placing the first foot back under the blanket, John smiled a little when Sherlock stuck the other one over the edge of the sofa without any prodding. “Good man,” John praised, knowing that any bit of positive reinforcement now would be beneficial, even if it seemed slightly childish.

After giving the second feet the same care and attention, John kissed the ball of Sherlock’s foot then stood up. He picked up the bucket, and both flannels, and brought them to the kitchen to be dealt with later. Before returning to Sherlock he made a detour into their bedroom and collected a pair of socks and slippers. 

“I wasn’t sure which you’d like,” he said, placing both pairs on the coffee table next to their now cooling tea. “Why don’t you sit up, have a sip of tea before it’s gone completely cold, and we’ll figure out which you’d prefer? Hmm?”

It took Sherlock nearly a full minute to sit up. John was pleased to see that, when he did sit up, he wasn’t curled in against himself. Instead he sprawled out, one long leg stretched out beneath the blanket across the length of the sofa, the other bent slightly up, as if he were trying not to hug it to his chest. John sat at the far end, placing Sherlock’s foot on top of his lap, then handed Sherlock the cup with sugar. 

“Speedy’s?” Sherlock eyed the cup for a moment before taking a sip. His eyes fluttered shut as the warm liquid hit his tongue. “My mother still believes to this day, that there isn’t anything a good cuppa couldn’t fix.”

“Smart woman.” John remarked, noting how Sherlock seemed to perk up a bit as he drank another sip.

“You’ve no idea. Maths expert, she is. Used to drive us mental with our homework. I was happy when I was sent away to boarding school.” 

It was rare for Sherlock to talk about his childhood. For the longest time John had thought his friend must have had a less than savory home life as a child. But watching the fond smile play across Sherlock’s lips told him another story. Some of it, at least, had been pleasant. He’d just been about to ask Sherlock if he wanted to go back and discuss the cause of this morning’s panic attack, but the way Sherlock sat with his eyes shut, cup cradled in both hands, and that tender smile… he quickly changed his mind. 

_ Will knowing what caused this attack help us? Especially if I’m killed in the next few weeks? Wouldn’t it be better to have a few good memories of our time together, than sit here analyzing the cause and effects on our emotions? Better this way, we can move forward and have a good day together.  _

Silence overtook them, they rested comfortably in each other’s presence. Soon their tea was left forgotten on the coffee table, having gone too cold to drink, and Sherlock’s feet were both resting on John’s lap.

“What would you like to do today, love?” John began to gently trail his fingers over Sherlock’s feet. His companion made a soft purring sound and he wiggled his toes. “Ohhh.. you like this?” Grinning John lightly tickled the soft skin around Sherlock’s toes. Sherlock twitched his foot and let out a soft snort, but didn’t pull his foot away,

“Now… back to your childhood,” John shifted on the sofa so he could look over at Sherlock without risking a crick in his neck. Sherlock allowed a small smile to play across his lips. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said arily, waving his right hand in the air and watching as the light played on his ring. A soft smile toyed over his lips as John redoubled his attempt to tickle him.

“I would,” John teased a moment later, removing his hands from Sherlock’s feet and adding, “want your feet rubbed? Give me something, one fact from your childhood. Something I  _ don't _ already know. And no fair telling me about Mycroft and his obsession with cake.”

“Fine,” Sherlock drawled. He rolled his eyes, pretending to be annoyed and wiggled his toes again, “but if I’m to divulge one of my secrets the very least you can do is keep rubbing my feet. That feels nice.”

“Deal,” laughing John returned to massaging Sherlock’s foot. 

“I’ve never told you about the first time I picked up a violin, did I?” 

“Definitely not.” John replied with a smile, “but I am curious. Go on.”

“It comes down to one simple fact. I wanted to annoy Mycroft.”

John barked out a laugh, which made Sherlock smile. Sherlock paused his story just long enough to shift into a more comfortable position. He half sat up, keeping the blanket tucked around the lower half of his torso, and sat with his back leaning against the armrest.

“I was seven, Mycroft well into his teens, we’d just returned from a family outing to the symphony. It had been a lovely outing, I remember being excited to go into the city. Even Mycroft had been happy to get out of the house. However Mycroft had not enjoyed the symphony. He spent our journey home complaining about the First Chair, and how he’d played at the same pitch as his supporting violinists. I didn’t know much about music then, or why that was a problem. I just saw my big brother annoyed, and a rather childish part of myself wanted to exploit that.”

“Christ,” John stifled a laugh, picturing a young Sherlock plotting out revenge against his older brother, “don’t tell me that’s the sole reason.”

“Oh, but it is. The next morning I went downstairs with a sense of purpose. Over breakfast I announced that I wanted to learn the violin. Music was welcomed in our house, with open arms. Ask Mycroft to play the piano for you someday. So you can imagine how pleased my mother was with my decision. I had been staring Mycroft in the eyes when I’d made my little announcement, I still can recall to memory, with precise details, the look of horror on his face.”

“Please tell me you purposefully botched your first lessons, simply to annoy him.” 

“Indeed, that was my intention.” Sherlock replied with a laugh, “however I quickly discovered that not only did I have a talent for it, but I enjoyed it. Children oftentimes have a hard time expressing their emotions, I found I could do so easily with the aid of my music. Within six months I was composing my own music, and had gone through four separate instructors when the previous ones were unable to keep up with my progress.”

“Sibling rivalry,” John observed with a small laugh, “even you two aren’t immune to it.” They shared a soft giggle then John patted Sherlock’s bare feet. “Socks or slippers?”

“Socks, please.” Sherlock decided after a moment. “As for your other question… There’s an experiment I wanted to do, it has to do with chlorine levels in pool water. Lestrade sent me a casefile a few days ago, a man drowned in his own pool, however they think the wife did it.”

“Did she?” John questioned as he slipped a pair of thin black socks over Sherlock’s feet.

“I believe not, the chlorine level is rather low. I surmise that the last rain storm we had diluted the chemicals in the pool, and that he simply slipped on algae on the stone around the pool.”

“Any lacerations or other signs of foul play?”

“A bump on his forehead, nothing else.” 

“Soo…” John walked his way through the scene, “A man… erm, age?”

“Fifty-six.”

“Right, a middle aged man is found floating in his pool, I assume by his wife,” he looked over at Sherlock who nodded in affirmation, “he was dead when found. Was he facing up or down?” 

“Down.”

“So, wife found him, face down in the pool. I assume she called 999, and it was the paramedics or coroner who found the lump on his forehead. If he did slip and fall in, he was probably knocked unconscious by the blow, then drowned due to being face down. And the chlorine levels matter why? What am I missing? What’s throwing suspicion on the wife?”

“They were in the process of finalizing their divorce. Once concluded, a large sum of money would be awarded to the wife. The police don’t care about facts like, if it rained the day before the murder, so if I can prove that the rain levels affected the chemical levels in the water, the same water found inside his lungs, and using the crime scene photos, highlight a patch of algae, I might be able to clear her.”

“Ahhh..” John nodded watched as Sherlock slipped gears from his Fiance enjoying a foot massage to the brilliant detective he knew so well. “Well, you’d best get started on that. I’ll stay out of your hair, unless you call for me.”

“You should update your blog.” Sherlock noted as he stood up. “Let the world know I’m back.”

“Oh really? And why would I do that? What if I’m enjoying having you to myself.” John teased, standing up and stepping close to Sherlock. He grabbed Sherlock’s hips and tugged him close. As he leaned in for a soft kiss he whispered, “don’t like the idea of sharing you. Not yet.” 

“Mmm.” Sherlock agreed, melting into the kiss for a split second before remembering he’d stood up for a reason. “Share me you must, John, unless you plan on ridding London of every last criminal.”

“Oh, don’t tempt me.” 

“You would, wouldn’t you. If I asked,” he pulled away from the kiss, and John’s embrace, Sherlock gave John an inquisitive glance. 

“Don’t ask, and we’ll never have to find out. Though, I do believe I’ve made it quite clear what lengths I’ll go to in order to keep you safe.” John gave Sherlock his best  _ I’m just an innocent doctor _ smile, then collected their abandoned tea. “Now you go be brilliant, I think I will pick away at my blog. Even though I can’t write about my daring rescue, I can still talk about you being home.”

Happy for an excuse to sit in front of his laptop, John settled himself in the wooden chair with a bagel and spared one glance to ensure that Sherlock was too engrossed in his work to pay him any attention.

John thought about writing a blog entry, but every time he wrote the words “Sherlock is alive” images of West training a rifle on Sherlock made him delete it. During their days back in The Jungle, West had used a 50calibur rifle. John had seen the fist sized hole the gun left in its victims.  _ What if updating the blog turns Sherlock into a target? While I’m quite certain they are aware he’s back, I don’t wish to put the spotlight on him.  _

Deciding against updating his blog, he spent an hour combing through old comments and replying to well-wishers and acquaintances. He hadn’t noticed, while Sherlock had been gone, how many people genuinely seemed to care. He’d been a shell of the man he was today, without Sherlock by his side, and he hadn’t been strong enough to do much with his blog. He’d updated a few times, posting old cases when his therapist Ella had suggested it as part of his healing process, but he’d only halfheartedly read the comments.

Once he’d replied to scores of comments, he pulled up the local news site. Taking his time, he searched for any abnormalities. Any crime patterns that could indicate the whereabouts of West. 

**Cancer patient dies after farewell to horse at hospital**

**_Heartwarming, but not related._ **

**Chocolate teapot proves useful**

**_Used to boil water for two minutes, giving their tea a hint of chocolate. Why?_ **

**'Escaped crocodile' was inflatable toy, police discover**

**_I wonder if Lestrade has videos._ **

**Banksy anti-immigration bird mural destroyed**

**_Nothing..._ **

John checked a few more sites, but found only similarly written articles covering the same topics. He thought of texting Lestrade, asking him if any bodies had turned up with a 50 caliber bullet wound as cause of death, but that would just lead to questions. 

_ “Why, should I be expecting that? John, what do you know? How many times have I told you and Sherlock not to leave me in the dark!” _

_ “Oh, only my body, two bullets, one through the heart and one through the head. No need to worry, Greg, if I’m dead I’ll let you know.”  _

John caught himself moments before he dragged a hand through his hair and growled with frustration. It wouldn’t do, to have Sherlock see him agitated, not when there was so little information to go off of.  _ Plus, Mycroft is right, _ John throught, glancing over at Sherlock who was still engrossed in his experiment.  _ He probably already solved that case, yet he’s still poring over the data. He needs to distract himself, without committing to a huge project that would overwhelm him.  _

The sun was well up, and the morning mostly over. John was just about to shut his laptop, and begin making excuses for lunch when he thought to refresh his inbox. One new, unread email, received an hour ago, sat waiting for him. He didn’t recognize the sender, and would have deleted it as junk mail, except he was expecting further communication from either West or Sholto. Sucking in a breath he willed his body to remain relaxed, and he opened it.

It was text based, no links, no pictures. John took a moment, scanning over the e-mail for anything that could be hidden. He highlighted it, copied and pasted it to a word document and changed the font and background color, but there were no hidden words or images. He deleted the document, glanced at Sherlock who was still occupied, and went back to the e-mail and read it in full.

**_“You think I’m playing at some game? You think bricks will keep you safe? Hear my words, lion cub. Do not mistake me for my mask. You see light dappling on the water and forget the deep, cold dark beneath. Listen. You cannot hurt me. You cannot run or hide. In this I will not be defied._ **

**_I swear by all the salt in me: if you run counter to my desire, the remainder of your brief mortal span will be an orchestra of misery._ **

**_I swear by the stone and oak and elm: I’ll make an example of you. I’ll follow you unseen and smother any spark of joy you find. You’ll never know a man’s touch, a breath of rest, a moment’s peace of mind._ **

**_And I swear by the night sky and the ever-moving moon: if you attempt to lead me to despair, I will slit you open and splash around like a child in a muddy puddle. I’ll string a violin with your guts and make you play it while I dance. You are an educated man. You know there are no such things as demons. There is only my kind. You are not wise enough to fear me as I should be feared. You do not know the first note of the music that moves me. -West”_ **

John read over the e-mail a dozen times. He’d have to send Mycroft an exact copy, so there was no need to memorize the full e-mail. Instead he picked part the bits he thought were important

_ “You think bricks will keep you safe? Hear my words, lion cub.” Bricks probably mean Baker Street while lion cub is an obvious reference to me. Someone was watching me and saw me meet with Mycroft.  _

_ “I’ll follow you unseen.” A warning, that while Mycroft is ensuring Baker Street is safe, I will be a target as soon as I step outside. But when… now, or once the countdown starts?  _

_ “You’ll never know a man’s touch.” Odd… unless… unless they’ve seen Sherlock and I together.  _ The thought made John shudder, and he wondered if they’d simply been observed going for their walk the day before, or if someone had eyes on the flat.  _ I’ll have to get Mycroft in here to sweep for cameras. _

On a hunch, John googled the first paragraph. It took a few minutes of searching, but on a forum he found a post from a self proclaimed “book nerd” who’d picked apart his favorite book.

In which he quoted one of his favorite passages, which was nearly word for word identical to the e-mail. He then spent the next few minutes going over the original text, and the e-mail, making mental notes of where his mysterious sender had altered from the quote.

**Iron** had been replaced with  **Bricks,** and  **manling** had been replaced with lion cub. And in the last passage, the word  **fiddle** had been replaced with  **violin.**

_ So, Sholto gave you permission to contact me. Not being clever enough to think of something witty to say, you google search… what, exactly. Threatening quotes? Then just copied and pasted the first thing you found that suited our situation. What are you trying to tell me, Pierce? That I can’t run from you, that you have my exits covered? Or is this simply a scare tactic? Regardless, you’ve tipped your hand, letting me know you’ve been watching us. If you’re that close, two can play at that game. _

John’s blood ran cold, and he looked out the very window that Sherlock typically stood in front of when he was composing. He saw nothing suspicious, nothing out of the ordinary. He didn’t even see the men he knew Mycroft had sweeping the buildings. Yet, he had the sense that he was being watched, that they had been under surveillance for some time.

How often had he kissed Sherlock in front of that window? How often had he sat in his chair, in full view?  _ Too many times _ , he decided then glanced at the clock. He still had the better part of an hour before it was time to go out and get lunch, per Mycroft’s orders. 

“John?” Sherlock called from inside the kitchen, though his voice was low and gentle, it startled John so much that he jumped in his chair and knocked a book off of the corner of the table. It fell to the floor with a dull thud, the noise adding to his jarred nerves. Sherlock stepped into the lounge carrying a transfer pipette full of cloudy liquid, with a bead of water threatening to drip on the flood.

“Oi!” John said, thankful for a distraction,, “that had better not be chlorine. Mrs. Hudson will be cross if you spill any and it bleaches her rug.”

Sherlock looked down at the instrument in his hand, then gave John a sheepish look. John shook his head and nodded towards the kitchen. 

“I’ll be right there.” Once Sherlock’s back was turned John signed out of his email account and deleted his browsing history. His skin crawled at the thought of leaving the e-mail in his inbox, however he needed to save it for a few more hours. Once he copied it onto his new phone and sent it to Mycroft he could remove all traces of it, for now all he could do was keep an eye on his laptop. 

“Ah John,” Sherlock had seated himself back at the table and didn’t look up when John entered the kitchen, “I need your assistance.”

“With what? Opening a window?” Wrinkling his nose at the sting of chlorine John crossed the room and opened the window in the far corner. “Sherlock, I need to ask you something…” John asked, standing with his arms crossed and his back facing the window. Cool spring hair washed over him, sending gooseflesh down his neck, and it was only then that he realized how cooped up they had been.  _ With no prospect of things getting any better. _

“Have you solved the case?”

“I have…” Sherlock nodded slowly and placed the transfer pipette on a metal tray. 

“When?”

“An hour ago…” admitted Sherlock. The detective stared down at his hands which were now folded on top of the table.

“So what are you doing in here, love? Giving yourself a headache from prolonged exposure to chlorine?” 

“John…” Sherlock started, his voice strangled and an expression of pure uncertainty clouded his face.

“You have nothing to prove, Sherlock,” John cut him off gently, “we both know you’re afraid to push yourself like you used to. So don’t push yourself. Instead  _ test _ yourself. Start small, like this case. Solve it, like you have already. Then come to me, talk to me about your discoveries, we can work out if you had any troubles, or if anything triggered a negative response. Once you’re bored with trivial cases, move on to something a bit harder.”

“Baby steps.” Sherlock sighed and leaned his head back on his shoulders, letting out a frustrated “ugghhh.”

“Yes, baby steps. Tedious, but necessary.” John smiled, and hoped that if any of the stress he was feeling was showing, Sherlock would believe it to be over concern for his well being. Which, in a way it was, just not directly related to Sherlock’s healing process. 

“Now, if you’re quite done, clean this up and meet me in the bedroom. I feel like working up an appetite.” 

“Work up… how?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes in suspicion, wondering what new form physio would take place in, but the way John just smirked at him made his heart flutter.

“Come find out.” 

With a sly wink John turned on his heels and left the room. Sherlock watched him until he was out of sight, mind racing and heart beating fast. They were still in what most would call their honeymoon stage of their relationship. Where everything was new and exciting and sex was frequent and outgoing. However, John had been far too cautious with him, between the injury and his unstable emotions. He’d only instigated a few romps in the sheets, leaving it up to Sherlock to indicate he wanted something more than domestic bliss. Yet here he was, nearly halfway through the day offering sex.

_ I certainly hope this deduction isn’t wrong… _ Sherlock felt his cock twitch at the thought of walking in to find John naked, laying on their bed. He nearly left his experiment where it was, but John had been right to open the window, the stench of chlorine was nearly overwhelming. So he made quick work of cleaning his mess up. He was halfway down the hall, intending on heading straight to the bedroom when he heard John utter a soft moan. 

He made himself pause long enough to wash his hands in the bathroom. He’d been wearing gloves, so there was little risk of burning John’s skin, but that was a risk he wasn’t willing to take. He left his shirt in the laundry basket, and entered their room through the opaque glass door. He’d only managed to take one step over the threshold when the sight that greeted him gave him pause. 

John lay with his eyes closed and he had a look of pure desire on his face. He was nearly naked, stretched out over their duvet. One foot was planted firmly on the bed, his knee bent. His right hand was bent behind his head, under a pillow, which was a shame as hid his ring. However his left hand made up for the loss. Sherlock watched fixated as John languidly palmed himself through his pants.

“Gorgeous… Christ, you’re gorgeous.” Sherlock whispered, drinking in the sight. There was a damp spot just over the head of John’s cock, where precome had begun to leak through his pants. Sherlock could make out the outline of his cock with almost perfect detail and it made his body shiver with anticipation. He felt his own cock stiffen to full attention as he stood there, watching his fiance stroke himself. 

“Joining me?” John turned his head towards Sherlock’s direction, but didn’t open his eyes. Sherlock watched as his tongue swept over his lips and he felt his own mouth go dry.

“I..” stammering he cleared his throat and said, this time in his normal rich baritone “I would love to.”

“Good.” 

John’s voice was modulated and silvery, that one simple word wrapped itself around Sherlock’s being and acted like a magnet and he the piece of metal being drawn towards the side of the bed. He had one knee on the bed, wanting nothing more than to bury his face in the heat between John’s legs when his lover opened one eye and tutted at him.

“Trousers, Sherlock.” the right side of John’s face quired up into a foxy smirk as Sherlock quickly undid his belt and let his trousers drop to the floor beside the bed. John gave a single nod, then closed his eyes again and Sherlock took that as permission. 

Grace and elegance had gone out the window the moment Sherlock’s eyes had spotted the patch of precome leaking through John’s pants. He clambered over John’s outstretched leg and settled himself on his knees between John’s thighs. He covered John’s hand with one of his, silently begging permission to be the one to touch him, to be allowed to pleasure him. 

John stroked himself once more, Sherlock’s hand following the motion, then he removed his hand and behind his arm back to join the other one beneath the pillow. Sherlock let out a pleased sigh as his hand engulfed John’s erection. 

He took his time with it, titillating the sensitive member through John’s pants. He placed his index finger and thumb on either side and dragged his fingers down the length teasingly, then back up. Stopping his motion just before his fingers reached the head of John’s cock, he brought his fingers back down and rasped out a short laugh when John bucked his hips in complaint. 

“Pace yourself, John.” Sherlock chided as he stroked his fingers up once more, stopping just before he reached the more sensitive head, “You’ve been stroking yourself for a good solid five minutes, I wouldn’t want you to come just yet. Not when I’ve just gotten here.” 

“Sherlock…” 

His name sounded like honey dripping from the lips of the man he cherished most. He wanted to surge forward, to lock those lips with his and spend eternity lost in the feeling of being loved and wanted. But he was enjoying teasing John more than he cared to admit, this being something he had not yet been permitted to do. So instead he bent forward, placing his free hand on the bed beside John’s hips for support, and nuzzled his nose against the underside of John’s cock.

“Jesus,” John hissed and involuntarily pushed his hips forward against Sherlock’s face. 

Nuzzling his way up the length he let his hand slip down to cradle John’s bollocks. Breathing in deeply he filled his senses with the scent of John. He smelled vaguely like his cheap soap, clean without an overwhelming artificial aroma, and there was the undeniably musky scent that he’d read about on the internet.    
  
“Given enough time to compile the data, I could piece together the last time you’ve showered.”    
  
“That’s... ahh… romantic.” John groaned out just as Sherlock placed his mouth over the head of his cock and exhaled. Warm air engulfed the tip of his cock and he let out a low moan of approval. “But keep doing that, and you can say whatever you’d like.” 

“I could do more…” Sherlock purred as he hooked a finger under the elastic of John’s pants and pulled the fabric down just far enough to expose the tip of John’s cock. A small bead of precome began to leak out, using the tip of his tongue he lapped at the slit and smirked as John bucked beneath him. “If you beg.”   
  
“Christ, Sherlock, please,” moaning John wriggled beneath him, he lay both legs flat against the bed, giving Sherlock more room above him. His voice full of desperation and longing he gasped out, “Please, Sherlock, touch me more.”

“So polite, saying please. How could I refuse? But John, how would you like me to touch you? With my mouth, my fingers? Through your pants you’ve left on… Or shall I strip you and lay you bare before me, and just have my way with you?”

John didn’t answer at first, he simply bucked beneath Sherlock, trying to get his cock back against Sherlock’s tongue. Not to be outdone, Sherlock settled back on his knees and wrapped his hand around John’s exposed head.

“These are your options. Hand…” applying a small amount of pressure Sherlock slid his hand down an inch of John’s erection, using John’s own precome as lube. 

“Mouth…” Sherlock leaned forward again, bracing himself with his right hand, using his left he rolled John’s foreskin down, exposing the head fully before locking his lips around it. He swirled his tongue around the plump head, focusing on the sensitive glands at the base of the head, then he lifted off with a wet  _ pop _ . “Or I can take your pants off, and just do as I please.”

“Pants… off…” John groweld, lifting his hips just long enough for Sherlock to grab hold of the waistband and yank his pants down. They ended up somewhere around John’s left ankle, but Sherlock was beyond caring about clothing now. He sat up awkwardly and yanked his own pants off and tossed them to the floor.

“Mouth, god, use your mouth.” John was rasping, he had a layer of sweat glistening over his forehead. Sherlock noted the way the pillow was bunched on either side of John’s head and knew that his lover was gripping the pillow with both fists as he attempted to maintain control. But John was already past the point of control, he was wrecked by the few teasing touches. 

“I’m going to make you come in my mouth, John,” Sherlock purred, watching as precome leaked copiously out of John’s slit at his words. 

“Christ, please… yes.” John shook his leg, and there was a soft rustle as his pants joined Sherlock’s.

“Let me taste you…” Sherlock leaned forward once again, bracing himself with both hands he surged forward, flattened his tongue and licked a broad strip up from the base of John’s cock to the tip. John shuddered and hissed out a curse when Sherlock’s tongue laved over his head, which made Sherlock pull back and chuckle softly.

“Someone is sensitive.” He rubbed his cheek along the side of John’s erection then sucked in the tip. He circled his tongue around the hard flesh in his mouth, tasting the salty fluid as it leaked out of John.

“I’m already so close,” John whimpered as he tried to keep himself from bucking forward to seat himself fully in Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock laughed around him, which sent vibrations coursing over him, he cried out and pulled a hand out from under the pillow. He dug his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and watched as Sherlock slowly took more of himself in his mouth. But before his whole length was seated inside the warmth of Sherlock’s mouth, Sherlock was pulling off and blowing cool air over his damp erection.

“Well, someone was playing with himself when I arrived, it’s hardly my fault if you don’t last long. Honestly, John.”

“Sherlock…” John lamented and shivered as gooseflesh ran up his body, “Please, take me, all of me.”

Sherlock smirked up at his partner then as quickly as he’d pulled off John was back inside Sherlock’s mouth. He felt the tip of his cock hit the back of Sherlock’s through, then Sherlock swallowed and John cried out a string of curses and praises.

“Fuu… yes, Sherlock! Do that again,” he pulled on the lock of hair between his fingers and was rewarded three swallows in quick succession.   
  
Ever since John had given him his first blowjob, Sherlock had often wondered what it would be like to give one in return. He’d spent countless hours on a site called reddit, talking with people in one of their sub forums for sex. He’d asked questions on where to focus his tongue, how much pressure he should apply through suction, and if he should use his hands or not. 

People had, generally, been helpful, and he’d received a wide range of advice. Though they all had one suggestion in common. To watch his partner for reactions. Unsurprisingly, everyone responded differently. While one man might like his head toyed with, another might like his bollocks fondled. So he watched and listened for John’s reactions. 

It was not hard to figure out that John tightening his grip on his hair as a sign of enjoyment. It wasn’t long until Sherlock noticed that John flexed his legs when his tongue slid over the underside of his head, so Sherlock looked for a way to combine both reactions. Putting all his weight on his good shoulder, he gripped the base of John’s cock with his left hand and swirled his tongue around as he slowly stroked his hand along the base.

“Fuck!” John tightened his hand in Sherlock’s hair and pressed his heels into the bed. 

Sherlock hummed, pleased with himself and began to bob his head up and down faster, while applying more pressure with his left hand. John had already been quite hard, but as he worked him up and down he felt as the base tightened even further, felt the muscles as they twitched from the pleasure he was providing. His mouth filled with the salty taste of John’s arousal and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he reached his climax. 

He wanted to stroke himself and reach his orgasm as John achieved his, but logistically there was no way to make that happen. He needed both hands where they were. But a stroke of genius hit him, and he slung a leg over one of John’s and began rolling his hips, rubbing his erection over the soft skin of John’s thigh. It wasn’t much, but it was enough in his heightened excitement to keep his erection from flagging. 

“Sherlock… I’m…” adjusting his grip in Sherlock’s hair John groaned and canted his hips forward sending his cock deep against the back of Sherlock’s throat.

That was all the warning Sherlock had before warm salty fluid was filling his mouth. He choked a little at first, making a mental note to pull back next time and let John’s discharge land on his tongue, instead of against the back of his throat. John was too busy shouting every synonym he knew for the word “fantastic” to pay much notice though, so Sherlock considered it a job well done. He gave John’s flagging erection one last languid suck, then pulled off with a lude pop. John’s hand fell to the bed beside his hip and he lay there bonelessly as he tried to gather his composure.

Sitting up on shaking knees Sherlock reached down and took himself in hand. Using his index finger he collected a string of precome from his tip and slicked up his own cock, then began pumping his fist in earnest. John came down from his orgasm just in time to watch Sherlock stroke the last bit of pleasure needed out of himself. 

“John…” Sherlock cried out, his balls tightened and he felt the pressure building up deep within his groin. He squeezed his eyes shut, adding a twist to his movements when he reached his head.

“Come for me, Sherlock…” 

Sherlock heard John’s voice as if it had been spoken from across the room. The pressure building up inside him drowned out any other senses.. Two more strokes and he was shouting John’s name and shaking as the cork popped and the pressure released. His vision went black, then he collapsed on the bed beside John, his head falling somewhere by John’s elbow. 

A gentle hand stroking the side of his face brought him back to himself. He looked up to find John smiling down at him. John was propped up on one elbow, his hair damp with sweat and a lazy contented gleam in his eyes. Sherlock returned the smile and nuzzled into the touch. 

“Where did you learn to do  _ that _ ?” John asked, his voice silvery and full of mirth. 

“The internet.” Sherlock quirked the corner of his mouth up into a smirk and joined John in a fit of giggles.

“Only you could learn to give the best blowjob I’ve ever had from the internet.” John’s stomach growled and he glanced at the clock beside their bed. “Fancy some lunch? I fancy some curry”

“Mmm but hurry, back. I don’t like it when you’re gone.”

“Of course, love.” 

***

The burner phone Mycroft’s agent had slipped into his pocket felt like a ton of bricks weighing him down by the time John arrived home. It had taken every shred of his training to ignore the crawl in his skin, or the way his fingers itched to reach out and message Mycroft right then and there on the street. Sherlock was up and dressed, and judging by his damp curls had taken a shower. He was seated at the table in the kitchen, pouring over what looked like an old case file from the MET. Placing their lunch on the table to Sherlock’s left John walked around and planted a kiss to the side of Sherlock’s temple. 

“Just going to pop upstairs for a mo, get the plates out?”

“Mmm.” Sherlock’s rich voice rumbled out from somewhere beneath his mop of dark curls, making John chuckle despite the hole being burned through his pocket. He knew that tone too well. That was the sound of one  _ very _ distracted consulting detective, the one that spoke of forgotten bedtimes, skipped meals, and certain army doctor bloggers being left behind at a crime scene. 

“Plates, Sherlock,” giving him one more kiss John exited the room through the same door he’d entered, and bounded up the stairs to his old room. It was now mainly used for storage, holding some of Sherlock’s older suits, their off season clothing, and miscellaneous odds and ends that John had negotiated upstairs and out of the beaten path. John had plans to surprise Sherlock by turning this space into a lab for Sherlock, if he survived long enough to make it happen.

His old bed had been pushed against the far wall. It was piled with boxes and plastic totes, but he managed to find a corner to sit on. He sat facing the door, and listened for a moment, adjusting back to the once familiar sounds. The hall and stairs creaked, and it was unavoidable, so as long as he listened closely he’d have enough of a warning, should Sherlock check up on him, to hide the burner phone under a box.

The device was already turned on, thankfully, saving John a few precious seconds. There was no passcode, so despite the missed text notifications eating away at him, the first thing he did was set a passcode of six random numbers and two letters. Only once he was certain the device was protected did he open the text. 

**We’ve set you up with a secure e-mail. I’ve been told you’re already logged into it. Password is your DOB, I do suggest you change it to something less obvious. -MH**

It only took John a few seconds to search through the applications, find the email icon and go in and change that password to another set of random numbers and letters he quickly memorized. He had one email, which he opened and scanned over. 

On top of a current picture of his old comrade, it contained details about West, most of which he already knew with a promise for more as time allowed. It also confirmed his suspicion that West was already in London, and had been for some time. West had arrived in London nearly a full week before John and Sherlock had. The thought made John shudder, wondering if West had set up cameras inside their flat. 

Normally, he would have trusted Sherlock to find and destroy any surveillance equipment in their flat, but with Sherlock still not quite up to par, John wondered if he were being watched at that very moment. Deciding it best not to leave that to chance, he quickly composed an e-mail. He copied over the latest threat from West, and asked Mycroft to set up a team to sweep 221b for bugs and cameras, then hit send. 

Lastly, he scanned over the picture. It appeared to be taken by airport security making it more than two months old. West hadn’t changed as much as he’d expected, aside from a new scar that stretched from his lip to his left ear. His hair had been buzzed short, his weight hadn’t changed much, but there was little else he could gather from the security footage.

John sat on the edge of the bed for a long moment, lips pursed, blowing slow but forceful breaths out through his mouth. If he walked back downstairs with an elevated heart rate, Sherlock would know that something was amiss. Once he felt a bit more relaxed he went to his bookshelf and pulled out one of his old medical textbooks. He’d carved out a section, years ago, for a small safe just big enough for a wallet or medical ID cards. It had proven handy more than once on tour and he didn’t have the heart to throw it out once he’d returned back to London. Which had been fortunate, when his bedsit had been broken into and the thieves had taken anything not nailed down  _ except _ for his books. 

He was fairly certain that Sherlock didn’t know about it, or if he did he wasn’t interested. Thinking to conserve the battery life of the new phone, he shut the device off then placed it inside the tiny safe, locked it then put the book back on the bookshelf. On his way back downstairs, he grabbed two umbrellas from the corner, thinking it would appear less suspicious if he had a reason for coming up here. However, when he returned back downstairs, Sherlock was still bent over the case file, oblivious to the world. 

“Sherlock, lunch.” Placing a plate in front of Sherlock, he sat across the table. Sherlock didn’t look up, but he absently patted the table until his hand found the plate and picked up the fork. John sighed, steeling himself for the annoyed text from Lestrade when he found curry stains all over his reports. 

***

John stepped out of the bathroom after having a shower later that afternoon to find Sherlock silhouetted in the window. He was facing the street, his right hand slightly raised, long elegant fingers wiggled in the dim afternoon light. Tying the belt on his dressing gown closed he closed the space between them and went up to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s body. 

“I’m glad you like it,” he said, meaning the ring that Sherlock was unabashedly admiring. “I should have realized, by the pride you take in your clothing, that you would have wanted a ring.” Their height difference made it so John couldn’t snuggle up against the back of Sherlock and rest his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder. So instead he nuzzled the side of his face against Sherlock’s shoulder blade and watched as Sherlock twisted his hand this way and that, letting the light play off the band of silver around his finger.

“I didn’t know I wanted it, until after you proposed.” After a moment, Sherlock lowered his hand and turned around. Embracing John, he pulled him tight against his chest and buried his face in John’s damp hair. “So don’t apologize.”

“I wasn’t going too…” John protested, but even as he said it he knew he would have apologized in the next breath. Sherlock simply snorted by way of reply.  _ West, are you watching us now? Then watch, and see what it’s like to be loved.  _ John’s hands found their way up Sherlock’s back, between his jacket and his shirt, he ran his fingers along either side of Sherlock’s spine. Showering had always helped ease his stress, so when his body relaxed and responded to Sherlock’s close proximity by way of a rather persistent erection, John simply took Sherlock’s hand and pulled him towards their bedroom.

_ Who knows how long we’ll have. Best to enjoy this while we can.  _ He thought as he shut their bedroom door. He turned around to find Sherlock already undressing and vowed to kiss every inch of Sherlock’s body before either of them came. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following is heavily borrowed from Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind. I can take no credit for it, and I highly suggest you check out the original quote. It's powerful and gives you chills.
> 
> “You think I’m playing at some game? You think bricks will keep you safe? Hear my words, lion cub. Do not mistake me for my mask. You see light dappling on the water and forget the deep, cold dark beneath. Listen. You cannot hurt me. You cannot run or hide. In this I will not be defied.
> 
> I swear by all the salt in me: if you run counter to my desire, the remainder of your brief mortal span will be an orchestra of misery.
> 
> I swear by the stone and oak and elm: I’ll make an example of you. I’ll follow you unseen and smother any spark of joy you find. You’ll never know a man’s touch, a breath of rest, a moment’s peace of mind.
> 
> And I swear by the night sky and the ever-moving moon: if you attempt to lead me to despair, I will slit you open and splash around like a child in a muddy puddle. I’ll string a violin with your guts and make you play it while I dance. You are an educated man. You know there are no such things as demons. There is only my kind. You are not wise enough to fear me as I should be feared. You do not know the first note of the music that moves me. -West”
> 
> ****
> 
> Two more chapters to go. One more story after this one. Chapter 1 is being worked on for the 3rd installment, so hopefully, you can look forward to that before the end of the year! (Well, almost certainly before the end of the year. I just don't want to rush it!) 
> 
> Again, many thanks to BRNZ for all her hard work, helping me brainstorm, ideas and edits. <3
> 
> Side note - Does anyone know how to prevent the extra spacing when copying and pasting from google docs to AO3?? It is driving me nuts.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mention a bore snake in this chapter - as some of you probably don't know much about guns (but others certainly will know more than I), I just wanted to clarify what that is so you don't have to pause and google it. Best way I can explain it, without simply copying and pasting from google... its a mix of a cleaning rod and a rope. My boyfriend has one that is a hybrid, and I've watched him use it both as the rope, and with the rod to clean the inside of the barrel. 
> 
> It's a coil of rope, meant to brush the inside without scratching, that has a weight on the end to help guide and drop it through the barrel. You grab the weighted end, pull it free, then snake the rope through, as the size tapers from small - by the weighted end- to thicker up top. You kind of shimmy it around like you would a towel on your back, then pull it clear. :)

His morning had been going so well. He’d woke up with a sense of purpose, a job to do. Now? Oh, now he wanted to scream, to kick something, or to throw his mobile against the wall with damaging force. Not that the act would help, or lessen his rage, but still the sound of glass shattering would be satisfying. 

Deciding against property damage, Pierce West threw his phone down at the foot of the bed and watched as it bounced off the stiff mattress and onto the floor. A veil of red hot rage clouded his vision until he could no longer see the text illuminating his mobile, but it didn’t matter, the words were etched into his mind. One text, two sentences, had ruined this mission for him.

**_Asset is to be taken alive, removal is not an option. Acknowledge new orders by 0900. -S_ **

**_Received. -P_ **

The single word of acknowledgement was all he could muster as fury boiled in him. He’d been promised a kill, one last job for The Panther. Now Sholto had gone and derailed his plans. They’d sent a sniper and expected a retrieval?

“What is the point of sending  _ me _ here? Come get him yourself!” he roared into the still air of his hotel room. Someone in the hall squeaked in surprise, a wayward guest or some poor staff member stuck working the morning shift. He reminded himself that he wasn’t to bring attention to himself, and shouting at max volume in the wee hours of the morning wouldn’t achieve anything other than get him kicked out of his room. Running a hand through his greasy hair he practiced a set of deep breathing exercises they’d all been taught in The Jungle, then looked down at the mess on his bed. He’d been cleaning his rifle, when the text had arrived, and she now lay in pieces on a towel. 

“Change of plans, Enyo, boss says I’m to take him alive.” Pierce West calmed himself by stroking a finger over the dismantled barrel of his Barette M107. The cool, multi textured metal was as familiar to him as his own hand. Cleaning his weapons had always been a soothing pastime for him, and had become something of a ritual the day before a kill. When not on a mission, he’d found it helped ease the ever present itch to spill blood and to calm his nerves when tasked with simply waiting. 

“Do you know how you got your name, Enyo?” West purred, his previous jovial mood coming back to him as he slid the pieces of his gun back together. “Enyo was a Greek goddess of conquest and bloodlust. You, my precious girl, help fulfill my darkest desires. I promise you before this mission is up, you’ll taste the traitorous blood of John Watson. Orders are orders, but Sholto didn’t say anything against Watson arriving missing a couple of fingers, or a limb...” 

West let out a low chuckle as the last piece of his gun clicked into place. He admired his companion, stretched out on the bed as she was, and ran a finger along her smother edges. Fully assembled, she was four feet and three inches long and weighed nearly two stone. She was a newer addition to his collection, an American model, popular with the American military, and his only multi-round rifle so far. But she’d become his favourite the first time he pulled her trigger.

“Watson betrayed us. We all promised to keep our heads down when we retired. Do you know what he did?” West began rolling the bore snake into a tight ball, careful not to bend the weighted tip as he spoke softly to his rifle. “We made a pact, after our last mission, to never speak of The Jungle again. Then suddenly The Lion is reactivated and sent to Serbia on some top secret mission. So top secret in fact, that the only paper trail Sholto could get his hands on was redacted to the point where it was laughable. Not a single word was left readable, Enyo, not one, except for the bastard’s name.”

Lifting his rifle with two hands, he knelt down beside her case. As he lays the gun reverently inside the foam outline, moulded perfectly for her shape, he whispers, “So, I was asked on one more mission, to clean up loose ends. But now Sholto has gone and changed our plan. No, don’t look at me like that, you know very well that I can’t go against orders, now go to sleep. Daddy will check on you later.”

He kneels there a moment longer, both hands holding the lid open as he took in every inch of weapon in front of him. The latches bit into the flesh on his thumb, leaving imprints on his skin, but he relished the feeling. Stroking his thumb over the metal latches, he took one last look at Enyo before locking her away and sliding her under the bed for safekeeping.

West only made it as far as the door before the itch became too much to bear. What did the dingy continental breakfast have to offer anyway? Toast, oatmeal, maybe a random piece of fruit? Food was essential, yes, it kept the body running and was technically necessary, but Enyo was so much more than fuel to his vessel. She was  _ everything _ to him, and currently, she was stashed under a dingy bed in a second rate hotel in London. 

“Ohhh…. You deserve so much better than that….” Pierce turned his back to the door, and tilting his head could just make out the corner of her case under the bed. “I should let you out, take you down to breakfast, order you a full fry up and watch as the civies run scared.” 

Leaning one shoulder against the wall he closed his eyes and imagined what it would be like, walking downstairs with Enyo tossed casually over one shoulder. How people would look at him strangely when he placed her in a chair across from him, setting a plate for her first before getting his own food. He let out a wistful sigh and let the image slip away, then pushed himself back into a standing position.

“I should eat… I’ll bring you back a snack, princess.” 

  
  
  


***

  
  
**_Received. -P_ **

The reply came far too quickly, and without a request for detailed orders. West was a man who did everything by the book, and needed in depth instructions regarding every mission. At least he had been, the last time they’d worked together.

Placing his phone down on the windowsill Sholto closed his eyes and stamped down a pinprick of panic. He’d known the risks that came with enlisting West’s help, he would have preferred to call in none other than Captain John Watson, who could have done the job quickly and discreetly. But, as Watson happened to be his target, West was the next best man. As long as you could keep a tight leash on West, things  _ typically _ didn’t go wrong. Watson had always managed to rein in their loose cannon. It was a shame it had come to this.

James Sholto retired Major General for Her Majesty's Armed Forces, looked out his sitting-room window, and watched the afternoon sun play on the fields that surrounded his home. Watching the clouds dip over the sun, casting shadows over the landscape, he wondered (and not for the first time) if he was doing the right thing. He knew Watson, he knew how strong a moral compass the former soldier had, and he knew that whatever had dragged him out of retirement must have been important. 

It wasn’t so much the fact that Watson had left the retirement they’d all agreed upon after The Jungle was dismantled. Rather, it was the simple fact that someone other than himself had known about the Lion, and his capabilities. Eliminating Watson from the field wouldn’t prevent further discoveries of their  _ activities _ but it would prevent Watson from being employed against them. Having Watson on the side of this Mycroft Holmes was not an advantage he was willing to let the other man have.

_ If one government agent, not even a military man, could learn about Watson, then what is stopping them from learning about the rest of us? You know we can’t be discovered, Watson. We would all be thrown in jail, facing a long and arduous trial in which we would be found guilty of treason, for acts against our own military, and thrown in prison for life. _

Sholto looked around at his surroundings. If the wrong person found out about their little group, he would lose everything. His estate, a modest home surrounded by ancient farmland located near Yorkshire Dales National Park was everything to him. It was all he had left, a peace offering from his NCO when he’d been given the option of retiring versus a court martial. He looked down at his scarred hand, grimacing at the melted skin and scar tissue. He wanted to forget the horrible accident that had ended his career weeks before he would have earned his third star. 

_ It wasn’t my fault.  _ His hand began to tremble and his muscles clenched in anger. Forgetting wasn’t in the cards, so to speak. Every time he looked in a mirror and saw his face, or changed his clothing, his mauled body reminded him.  _ I didn’t kill those men!  _

Shutting his eyes he leaned forward and gripped the windowsill, his forehead touched the cool glass. Drawing in a shaky breath he let the memory wash over him. 

_ He’d been leading a group of new recruits on their first walkabout. It was supposed to have been routine, clear a few buildings, hand out some food to the locals, offer medical assistance. It was him, and ten men, all young chaps, fresh off the metaphorical boat. They’d entered an abandoned schoolhouse, he told them to head towards the back and check for signs that could indicate the Taliban were using the building as a hideout while he watched the front. The next thing he knew he was waking up on his back, Watson staring down at him with horror written all over his expressive face. _

_ “There was an explosion,” Watson said, weeks later when Sholto was strong enough to come out of his medically induced coma. “Pressure plate built into the floor, we assume. You were the only survivor.”  _

_ Survivor…. _ Sholto scoffed, lifting his head so he could look at his reflection in the window.  _ This is not surviving.  _ His eyes caught sight of his mobile, reminding him of the problem at hand, both problems, to be precise. What to do with John Watson, and how to keep Pierce West in line. 

“Eleanor!” Straightening himself and forcing a mask of calm indifference on his face he called for the woman who doubled as his head of security and head housekeeper. Out of habit, he reached down to straighten his uniform, which of course he wasn’t wearing. It had been nothing more than t-shirts and jeans for years now. 

“Sir?” Eleanor, a small woman, not reaching much more than five feet, with greying hair and kindly eyes stepped into the room a moment later. In another life, if he wasn’t so scared and broken, Sholto could have loved her.

“I believe my presence might be required in London.”

“And how would you like to get there, Sir?” Eleanor didn’t bat an eye, despite knowing that the last time Sholto had left the premises of his estate was more than two years ago,

“See about hiring a private car on the first train out tomorrow. We’ll leave tomorrow either by train or car.”    
  
“Sir,” dipping her head in a slight bow she didn't question the implication that she too would be going. After all, once in London who else would run his errands for him, if not her? 

_ I’ll start the countdown when I arrive… _ he thought, wondering what kind of conversation he and Watson would have once they were face to face again after all this time. Would Watson explain, or would adhere to his hostage training?  _ Time will tell. _

  
  


***

“This is  _ all  _ I can get?” Incredulous Mycroft looked down at the folder with a single piece of paper inside it then back up at his assistant, “Are you certain you used my clearance code, not yours?” 

“Positive, Sir,” unperturbed Anthea gave him a brisk nod. “This was the only report on Pierce West we could find.

“Right, thank you,” it was a dismissal and his assistant knew it. When she didn’t obediently turn to leave Mycroft sighed and looked up at her, “What is it?”

“Just this, Sir,” handing over a plain white envelope she then turned to go, but Mycroft held up a hand for her to wait. 

He wasted no time in opening the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper with two simple lines of text, which had the appearance of being written on a typewriter.

**_The Jungle is closed. If you know what is good for you, you’ll stop digging, Mr. Holmes._ **

“Do we know who this is from?” already knowing the answer to the question he only  _ just _ registered her answer, already deep in thought at this new development. “Doctor Watson is no longer the only one getting threats, it would seem. Though, this would hardly be the first threat you’ve hand delivered to me.”

“Biweekly occurrence, Sir.” 

“Quite right. Occupational hazard, one might say.” Mycroft placed his head in his hands, allowing his assistant to see a moment of vulnerability he sucked in a deep breath. Upon exhaling he gathered his composure and put on his game face. “We’ll need to equip Doctor Watson with a few tools, quite like what we gave him for his last mission. Picklocks, a weapon he can hide on his person… and a GPS tracker. What’s the longest battery life we have access to in one of those?”

“Roughly two years, the technology has improved.” 

_ Stop digging? Someone thinks I’m still looking into the organization. Watson had suggested someone was watching their flat. If someone did have it under surveillance, I suppose seeing the two of us meet for tea the other morning would stir up questions.  _

“Right, I want one of them in the kit for Watson, throw in anything else you think would be useful. I want it on my desk in three hours. Also,” he added as she turned to leave, “I’ll need a team to sweep my brother’s flat for cameras tonight. I think I’ll stop by and take the newly engaged couple out to dinner. I’ll deliver the tools to Watson at the same time.”

“Very good, Sir.” 

Anthea took her leave, leaving him alone in his office. Bringing his attention back to the threat, Mycroft thoroughly gleaned for any information it could provide, then watched as his electric paper shredder destroyed the note. He glanced back at the report Anthea brought him, staring at the highly redacted piece of paper. Someone, Sholto he presumed, while not exactly clever, was at least well trained in covering up evidence. 

_ Regardless of his intelligence level, this changes things. Time to set Baker Street’s security on high alert. _

  
***

**6:07 pm**

“John, did you hear me?”

Try as he might John couldn’t tear his eyes off the text he’d just received. A small voice inside him was shouting profanity, but the rest of his body and mind had gone numb with shock. This had been expected, of course. But that didn’t make it any easier. After a full thirty seconds of sitting dumbly staring at his mobile, he remembered that he and Sherlock had been in the middle of a rather important conversation. 

He’d negotiated with Sherlock, who wanted to do nothing but plan the perfect date to get married. (Perfect date to him, of course, meant a day where Mycroft  _ and _ his parents were otherwise occupied, and couldn’t barge into the registrar's office.) But John was hungry, and it had been twelve hours since he’d gotten Sherlock to eat anything. So, John had bargained that if Sherlock ate, they could discuss dates over food. Sherlock had agreed, as long as dinner was a full english, with extra bacon. 

His heart seemed to have stopped beating, which he knew was ridiculous, as the timer on his screen was still slowly ticking down from 24:00:00 to 23:59:21 and lower still. That alone was proof that time was still moving, and that his heart was still beating, even if he was too numb to notice it. Knowing he’d shown his fear for too long, he swallowed hard and looked up at Sherlock.

“Sorry love, I was distracted. Say that again?” He threw in an apologetic smile and hoped Sherlock hadn’t been watching too intently. But the furrowed brow and the fierce flash in Sherlock’s eyes told John that his secret had been revealed. Well, at least that he  _ had _ something to hide was now known by Sherlock.

“I’m not an idiot, you know.” Sherlock scoffed, nostrils flaring so wildly that John didn’t need much of an imagination to envision smoke billowing out of them. His chair scraped across the kitchen floor as he abruptly stood up from the table, abandoning his half eaten fry up. “Either you tell me what the hell is going on, or you can sleep on the sofa. I’ve held my tongue for a week now, hoping you’d come to me with whatever this little problem is.” Sherlock gestured to the mobile in John’s hand, scowling at the way John’s hand trembled around the device. “But instead you hide it from me, thinking yourself so clever. Do you think I don’t know you’ve been going upstairs for more than just clothing or books? I’ve waited, John, for you to come to me with your trust. But instead, you flit about as if everything is just fine.” 

Sherlock stared down at John, who knew that his options were either to confess now or further anger Sherlock. After a full minute of John not even looking up at his fiance, Sherlock kicked his chair out of the way, sending it toppling to the floor, then turned and stalked down the hall to their bedroom. 

John didn’t look up, he didn’t watch as Sherlock left. Oh, he wanted to call out, to ask Sherlock to come sit back down and to tell him everything. He’d even begun questioning Mycroft’s reasoning for keeping Sherlock out of the loop, and on more than one occasion in the past twenty four hours had almost spilled the beans. It made sense to tell Sherlock. It had always been the two of them against the world. But what if it was too little too late, and Sherlock stormed away anyways? Sherlock turned once more, stopping just before their line of vision was broken and John shut his eyes before the sight dissolved his last shred of resolve.

“Have it your way then. But I remember it was  _ you _ who told me that friends protect friends…” Sherlock didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t put a stitch of anger behind his words. But the hurt John heard in those words made a tear slip down his face and land on the table beside his plate. But Sherlock never saw the tear, he never saw just how broken John was in that moment because he’d already turned and had entered their bedroom by the time John reached up to wipe a second tear from his face. Sherlock didn’t slam the door, but it shut with a solid click, and in the silence that followed John heard the metallic tick of the lock engaging.

“Right…” John sighed, lowering his head further until he risked getting egg on his forehead. He felt like a fool for believing he could hide this from Sherlock, knowing full well that Sherlock was incredibly competent in reading facial and body language.  _ And my face is rather expressive… _

Deciding to use Sherlock’s sudden departure to his advantage John too abandoned their meal in favor of retreating upstairs to his hidden mobile. He’d clear the table later, or if Mrs. Hudson took pity on them, she’d do it for them. As he mounted the stairs to his old bedroom he realized there was a strong possibility that the mobile wasn't quite as secret as he believed it to be, and that there was a chance Sherlock knew everything, but just wanted to hear John say it.

Alone upstairs, he checks for any signs that the bookshelf had been disturbed. He couldn’t find any, but of course, that meant very little. Sherlock would certainly be able to manage to find the book, the safe, cracking the combination, and reading his messages without leaving a trace. The only hope he had, was that if Sherlock did find the phone, he wouldn’t have been able to crack the numerical passcode, and there hadn’t been any wrong attempt alerts. 

_ Not that it matters. It would be easier if he found out on his own… If he knew everything. Why did I ever agree to not tell him? _

Inwardly kicking himself for doing the very thing he’d been angry at Sherlock over for the two years he thought him dead he flipped open the medical textbook and found the safe inside perfectly unadulterated. The lock was one of those dial combination locks, and with a few swift twists he had it opened and the possibly not so secret mobile in his hand. John punched in his passcode and read through the new information waiting for him.

He waded through several boring emails, mainly surveillance on West. Information regarding what he’d ordered for takeaway, which section of London he’d last been seen in, the last tube station he’d been caught on CCTV. Emails like that were now part of John’s day, and he’d hardly bothered paying attention to them. It wasn’t as if they had proof that West was in town for the sole purpose of murdering him, so there was nothing the authorities could do, not even Mycroft. Especially not after the fiasco with detaining Moriarty before tangible evidence could be brought against him. 

So, it was with mild shock that John saw, nestled between two emails regarding West’s routine the day before, that John saw an email with the subject  **Sholto.** He opened it, and scanned over the sparse information within the email.

Subject A: Spotted in Charing Cross Station at 0900 this morning with subject B-unknown.

The image below that line of text was of a man in a simple gray t-shirt, black slacks, and a baseball cap pulled low over his face. Most of his features were hidden, but for John, there was no mistaking the distinctive ripple of melted flesh along the left side of his face. Beside him was a kindly woman, short with her long grey hair tied neatly in a no-nonsense bun, John did not recognize her. He glanced down at the bottom left-hand corner of the image and noted the time stamp. The image had been taken less than three hours prior to John receiving his newest text. 

_ So… you waited until you were in town to set my expiration date. Why, James? Can’t trust your little pet, had to come here in person to ensure the job gets done? _

John allowed a grim smile to tug at his lips. That meant one thing, Sholto had  _ not _ authorized his death, and he was here to make certain West didn’t overstep his orders. West being unreliable could be beneficial to him, should he find himself face to face with his old comrade. 

_ I can push his buttons, should I need to. Anger him, set him on edge, and cause him to make mistakes.  _

Of course, egging him on could cause the insane man to put a bullet through his skull regardless of orders, and that would solve nothing.

_ Here I am, planning for my own kidnapping or death as if it's a normal everyday thing to do.  _ John shook his head and tried not to dwell on how twisted his life had become in such a short time. He fired off a quick email to Mycroft, updating him on the countdown, that Sherlock knew something was up, and asked for more information regarding the woman with Sholto.

Then he sat on the free edge of his old bed and looked around at the pile of boxes, books, clothing, old broken equipment Sherlock refused to part with and pondered his next steps. He’d need to go shopping to stock the kitchen with as many non-perishables as possible, his gun would need to be cleaned, Sherlock  _ and _ Mrs. Hudson would have to be made aware of at least a portion of the danger. 

While he didn’t expect West to attempt anything out of 221b, he didn’t want to risk Mrs. Hudson being used as bait to get John out of the flat and into the open. And until someone, West or Sholto, did something  _ actually _ illegal and not just threatening, there was little Mycroft or any other authority figure could do. After all, what proof were a few poorly written emails, and texts that could be mistaken for spam? 

His thoughts kept him busy for a solid twenty minutes. Wracking his brain he willed himself to have an epiphany, to design some crafty plan to keep Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock safe. In the end, he came up with nothing, aside from his and Mycroft's original plan which was to allow himself to be used as bait, to draw West and Sholto out of hiding. The irony of the situation was not lost on him, he was of course in the same shoes Sherlock had once been in, and he understood why Sherlock had faked his own death. 

Telling those you love, that simply being near you could cause harm to fall on them was impossible. There would be crying, there would be the inevitable begging to help, and to be part of the plan. Then anger when they found out the plan was simply to wait, to draw them out and force them to make a mistake. 

John knew now that he wouldn't have ever left Sherlock's side. That he would have been up on that roof with Sherlock facing down Moriarty one last time, unaware of the sniper trained on him. His presence on the roof, yes could have saved Sherlock, but it could have ended not only their lives but the lives of Mrs. Hudson and Greg. When John finally pulled himself from the depths of his own mind, he found an email from Mycroft on his secure phone.

**6:07 PM tomorrow, understood. Will be delivering a care package shortly. Please be wearing pants this time. -MH**

Despite the fight, he and Sherlock were currently having, John couldn’t help but smile. The last time Mycroft had popped in unannounced, he and Sherlock were otherwise  _ engaged _ on the sofa. Mycroft had gotten a full view of naked flesh, and it had taken five full minutes before he could get Sherlock to stop laughing long enough to explain his reason for being there. John thought back to how fortunate it had been that Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had popped into 221a to say hello to Mrs. Hudson, and hadn’t followed their eldest upstairs. His parents being downstairs, there to meet the fiance for the first time, had sobered Sherlock rather quickly.

Sherlock was still locked in their room when he finally made it downstairs, their meal still spread out over the table. John busied himself with cleaning up the food and doing the dishes while he waited for Mycroft to arrive. It didn’t take long, which of course was no surprise. Mycroft seemed to possess the magical ability to appear anywhere, at any given time, regardless of physical distance between destinations. Sherlock secretly called him Dracula behind his back, but they both knew logically it came down to the simple fact that should he so desire, Mycroft could quite literally change traffic lights. 

John was just drying his hands when the sound of the front door opening alerted him to the presence of his visitor. He walked quietly down the hall to where Sherlock was still barricaded inside their room and spoke through the door.

“Sherlock, your brother is here. You can be mad at me all you want, but for god’s sake, don’t leave me alone with him.” He didn’t think it would work and he especially thought that he deserved to be left alone with Mycroft. Sherlock would agree, that the two of them staring awkwardly at each other, forced to make small talk would be exactly what John deserved. 

So it was with mild surprise that he heard a soft rustle from inside the room, footsteps over the worn wooden floorboards, and the sound of the doorknob rattling when Sherlock reached out and unlocked it from the other side. Without speaking a word Sherlock opened the door and brushed passed John, letting his shoulder ram into John’s torso as he pushed him bodily out of the way without as much as an apologetic glance. 

He’d just sat down in his chair, legs crossed and a look of pure disdain written on every inch of him, from his facial expression to his body language, when Mycroft reached their sitting room door. He took one look at the room, noticing how Sherlock was sitting, and how John was leaning against the wall beside the kitchen door. He took in the tension between the two men, tutted, then rolled his eyes. 

“I was going to take you out for ice lolly,” he said, sitting in John’s chair without waiting to be invited to sit. Sherlock scoffed, blowing a hard breath through his nose and turned his glare from the tip of John’s nose to Mycroft.

“Ice lolly? I’m not a child, Mycroft,” making a noise that was half guttural, and half condescending snort, Sherlock wrinkled his nose at his big brother.

“Clearly not, and you’re just throwing a temper tantrum for the fun of it?” Mycroft sat back in the chair, his right hand which dangled over the armrest began to twirl his umbrella. 

"Stop doing that, Mycroft." Sherlock sneered, wishing he were well enough to play his violin simply to annoy his older brother out of the flat.

"I'm not  _ doing  _ anything, brother mine."

"Yes, you are. You're analyzing us, you know John and I are in a fight, so instead of going down the socially acceptable route of ignoring our plight, you're prying into our affairs."

"In a fight? Is that what you think?" Mycroft considered his brother, then twisted in the chair and gave John such an intense once over that for a moment there John felt as if he were standing naked in front of an audience. The look was over in a matter of seconds and Mycroft was settling himself back in the chair. "No. You're not in a fight. You, Sherlock, are angry. But look at John. He's defeated, tired, and is under incredible stress. He has no fight left in him, not in regards to you, anyways. No, I wouldn’t say you were in a fight, instead, I would say you’re being childish and ignoring the bigger picture.” 

Mycroft slowed his umbrella from a twirl to a standstill. He ran his thumb over the release catch that could, in a heartbeat, transform the seemingly mundane article into a small but effective cane-sword. This particular umbrella was not  _ his _ , it was an exact replica his assistant had added to the list of items they thought could come in handy for John Watson. Mycroft didn’t know if John had any formal training with a sword, aside from ceremonial training while he’d been in uniform, but still, a sharp point was a sharp point, and it could hurt training or not. 

“Why are you here, Mycroft?” Sherlock stood, flicking his pale blue dressing gown out behind him dramatically as he rounded his chair and went to stand by the window. His violin sat, case open, just within reach on the bookshelf. He reached his left hand out, and let his fingers trail over the smooth wood, but didn’t pick it up. 

“Believe it or not, I’m here to sweep for bugs. Typically I do so once a month, while you and John are out on a case.”

“I’m aware… you’re men track in enough dirt to give Mrs. Hudson a coronary.” Sherlock eyed the street below and saw the utility van a few flats down.  _ How obvious,  _ he thought, noting how the engine was still on, as if they weren’t even trying to disguise the five men waiting in the back. 

“Do they? I will inform them to be more discreet this time. Come join me at Speedy’s for a cuppa, or watch them work. Your choice, brother mine.” Mycroft stood as well, turning to John and giving him a stern look, “Walk me out, will you?” 

John nodded, uncrossed his arms, and pushed off from the wall. Mycroft didn’t often need to be “walked out”, he did as he pleased when he pleased. John wondered just how transparent it would be to Sherlock that there was more going on. Especially as Mycroft had just invited them both to tea. 

Stuffing his feet hastily into his shoes he pondered Mycroft’s choice of words moments ago. He’d said there was no fight left in him, which wasn’t entirely true. His life was on the line, thus making the wellbeing of his best friend and partner’s dangling on the edge of a knife. He would fight tooth and nail, to ensure he remained alive.

However, it was true, there was little to no fight left in him when it came to Sherlock. As much as he wanted to take Sherlock by the shoulders, shake him and tell him he was being stubborn. And that his stubbornness was ruining what could be their last peaceful day together, John didn’t have it in him to argue. If Sherlock wanted to hide in their room and remain mad at him, well, he deserved that, and who was he to beg for Sherlock’s attention? 

He followed Mycroft downstairs, noting halfway down that Sherlock wasn’t following. When they were on the ground floor, Mycroft took one step towards Mrs. Hudson’s flat and used the umbrella to point to a small cardboard box. It looked like an amazon package, packing label and all, and if it hadn’t been pointed out to him John wouldn’t have given it a second glance, thinking it something their landlady had ordered. But he nodded, understanding the implication. Saying nothing, Mycroft leaned the umbrella on the wall beside the box, then turned to leave.

“So, that’s it?” John asked, not bothering to lower his voice. “Just popped by to sweep our flat for bugs?” 

“As I said, I have it done monthly. Even while Sherlock was…  _ abroad…  _ you never noticed.” 

“Leave any of your own cameras behind?” Arching one eyebrow, John stood a few paces away from Mycroft, his hands folded behind his back. He laughed when he saw the sour look on the other man’s face, knowing full well that look meant yes, and he’d gotten an eyeful of his brother and the doctor in various  _ positions _ across the flat. “Mm well, I might become a nudist at home, might want to have your men remove  _ all _ the cameras this time.”

“Point taken…” Mycroft looked as if he wanted to say more, but at that moment Sherlock descended the stairs, still dressed in slacks, shirt, dress shoes, and his blue dressing gown flapping in his wake.

“I’m only joining you because I can’t stand the thought of watching your goons touch my things. I’m still mad at John, so don’t expect me to be pleasant,” he announced as he brushed past his brother and fiance. John shook his head, it wasn’t the worst state of dress Sherlock had worn to Speedy’s, and he knew well enough now that Sherlock did it more to prove a point than anything else. He just never knew what the point was. If sitting at a table with his fiance, who was wearing a dressing gown in public was supposed to make him feel a certain way, then the statement was lost on him. However, Mycroft wrinkled his nose but followed his younger brother out of the flat.

“Sherlock, pleasant?” Mycroft muttered as he stepped outside, “London would fall.”

***

_ How does he make this look so bloody comfortable?  _ John’s whole body ached, and he’d only been stretched out on the sofa for less than thirty minutes. He’d had more comfortable sleeping arrangements in the army, sleeping on a rock in the desert.  _ At least you expect a rock to be hard and uncomfortable. I should have cleaned off my old bed, slept up there.  _

Frustration grew inside him until he couldn’t lay still anymore. Trying to stretch out his feet met with resistance, and he was tempted to kick the armrest with the intent of breaking it. But considering the piece of furniture had managed to withstand Sherlock’s best tantrums, John decided the effort would be futile and simply stuck over the edge of the cushions. 

Another twenty minutes went by and still, John was unable to fall asleep. On top of the uncomfortable sofa, he was plagued by worries and fears that came with leaving the flat. In a moment of zero self-control, John slammed his closed fist into the back of the sofa. The act did nothing to alleviate the turmoil inside him, it hardly even hurt. Nor did it make a satisfying crack of skin against something hard, instead a dull thud filled the room, before returning him to the low hum of the city outside. 

_ I should just call Sarah, tell her I’m sick. Mycroft won't be able to guarantee my safety on the way home tomorrow. But that isn’t me, the John Watson I know doesn’t give up when the going gets tough. Hell, I joined The Jungle, went to Afghanistan, I protect Sherlock’s back, and rescued him single-handedly. No, I don’t back down… As long as I hurry home when my shift ends and in our flat by six, I’ll be safe. _

The sound of their bedroom door opening pulled John out of his thoughts. Sherlock had been locked inside their room since Mycroft left, he hadn’t even allowed John inside to get a change of clothes or his pillow. He’s simply thrown the items down the hall, given John one last scathing glare, then shut the door. Calming his racing thoughts he listened as Sherlock quietly stepped out of their room. 

Expecting Sherlock to either use the loo or get a drink of water, he tilted his head in surprise when his footsteps drew closer. The floorboard between the kitchen door and his armchair creaked, and it took all of his willpower not to turn around and call out to Sherlock. Sherlock stopped just the other side of the coffee table, just out of reach but close enough that John could hear him inhale.

“John… I don’t want to be angry with you.” Sherlock’s voice was heavy with grief and the words cut John deeper than any knife. He closed his eyes and chewed on his bottom lip for a moment before replying.

“I want to tell you everything.” 

“Why don’t you?” 

Sherlock’s question resonated throughout every fiber of John’s being. That was the very question he’d been asking himself since meeting Mycroft for tea. Wouldn’t telling Sherlock have made everyone’s lives easier. He wouldn’t have had to sneak around his own flat, texting Mycroft at odd intervals. 

“Can you give me twenty-four hours, Sherlock?” John rolled over on the sofa so his back was against the wall, and was just able to make out a shadowless shape in the darkness where Sherlock was standing, “Less than that, actually. Give me until suppertime tomorrow, and I promise I’ll tell you everything.” 

“Why can’t you tell me now?” The betrayal in those words hurt, but John clung to the pain as it gave him something other than fear to focus on.

“Would you believe me if I told you I can’t…”   
  
“But you can tell me tomorrow? How?” A soft rustle filled the room and the top half of the dark outline shifted. John closed his eyes, picturing Sherlock standing there in his dressing gown, arms crossed, and with an exasperated look on his face.

“I can tell the person who ordered me to keep my mouth shut to sod off.” John sat up and pulled his blanket to one side of the sofa, hoping Sherlock would come sit beside him. He was tired, he  _ needed _ sleep, but above all he needed things to be right between himself and Sherlock.

“Mycroft…” Sherlock hissed as he took a step backwards. “I have half a mind to call him and wake him up.”   


“Sherlock… c’ mere… Please?” he patted the sofa cushion and waited, neither confirming nor denying Sherlock’s guess.

“No, John. It’s nearly midnight, and neither of us should be up sitting on the sofa. Especially you. You should be resting before returning to work.”

“I know, but…” John felt all hope dissipate as Sherlock began inching away from him. 

Sherlock cut off his weary excuse with a sharp sniff before turning around and heading back towards their room. When he reached the kitchen door he called over his shoulder, “Are you coming?”

“Yes, yes I am, ” the sinking feeling in John’s chest dissolved as he gathered his pillow into his arms and followed Sherlock.

Not only did Sherlock allow him back inside their bedroom, but the moment John stretched out against the mattress Sherlock was pressing his body against John’s side like a cat seeking warmth. Sherlock’s head nuzzled against his shoulder, a leg hooked over him, and a soft sigh of satisfaction at finally being close once more escaped his lips. As Sherlock all but purred beside him, John felt some of the stress lessen and the troubles of tomorrow no longer mattered. All that mattered at that moment was his fiance, and how Sherlock had welcomed him back into bed.

He curled up, rolling onto his side as much as the position would allow, and draped an arm over Sherlock’s body. Sherlock’s face found the hollow of his throat, a hand gripped at the back of his tshirt, and sleep finally felt like a possibility after tossing and turning on the sofa. 

“I love you, Sherlock. Please, god, please don’t ever forget that.” 

“I love you too,” Sherlock mumbled sleepily, and with one last nestle John’s body relaxed and his eyes grew too heavy to keep open. 

  
  


***   
  


“At least he didn’t take you…” West crooned to the rifle cradled in his arms. He realized he was rocking back and forth, like a father with a fussy baby, but it didn’t bother him. “Daddy would never let James take you from me.” 

Oh, James had tried. Less than two hours ago, in fact. He’d tried under the guise of keeping her safe while West carried out the new orders. He’d even offered a combat knife as a sort of deposit, but West knew better than to give up his prized possession. He’d told former Major James Sholto exactly where he could shove that knife, preferably unsheathed, then stormed out of the meeting.

West had immediately moved out of the hotel, opting for one of his bolt holes over the luxury of hospitality staff to order about. He looked around at his surroundings. It had been a warehouse, once upon a time. The kind with a fancy office for the manager. This one had come with a walk in vault, which over the years West had slowly turned into a safehouse. He’d paid someone to crack the combination to the vault door, then made the man ensure the safety release latch built into the inside of the reinforced door worked before disposing of his body in the Thames. 

It was two rooms deep, the first room was his, and was furnished solely of gun racks and a single cot. There was no running water, so a simple portable toilet chair sat in the corner. It required regular cleaning but it saved him having to venture out into public for a simple piss. Most men, and he’d know quite a few of them, would simply piss into a bottle, but that turned his stomach. 

There was a panel if you pushed on a specific brick in the wall just to the left of his cot that would cause a section of the seemingly solid brick wall to slide inward. Behind which was a small room roughly the size of a closet. He’d never quite understood its purpose, but as the warehouse was on the River Thames, he assumed it tied back to smuggling days. He’d never used it, in fact, was afraid to go in case the secret door closed behind him. There were no windows, and as far as he, and the man who had cracked the combination lock, could determine, there was no way out of the room should the door shut behind you. So the room remained unused, gathering cobwebs and god knows what else. But, it would make a perfect spot for Watson, once he had his hands on him.

If Watson  _ did  _ somehow manage to escape that little room, there would be little chance of him exiting the building alive. The rest of the warehouse itself was rigged with explosives, Byrd had shown him a few tricks back in the day, and West had spent months setting up pressure plates all over the warehouse. They were invisible to the naked eye, and only he knew where to step without setting one of them off.

There were three clear paths, each undetectable but he knew the steps by heart, leading to the vault. One from the main entrance, then two each leading out in separate directions should he have to flee quickly. Here at least, Enyo would be safe from the meddling hands of Sholto. Plus, it would be prudent to remain close to the clever bastard. Less chance of him escaping just to blow himself up. And there was the added bonus of being able to hear Watson, while he and Enyo relaxed on their cot. 

There was no electricity here, and his mobile barely got service this deep within the building. He had little in the way of traditional entertainment, but he had books. He would read to Enyo, while Watson was on the other side of the wall, and his screams would be the sound that lulled them to sleep.

“Sholto doesn’t know about our little home here, Enyo,” West sat down on his cot, where she was laid out, her muzzle on the pillow, “We can have some fun with him before he makes us give him up. Would you like that, watching me play with him?” 

He cocked his head and listened, as if the rifle was answering his question, with a maniacal laugh stood back up. “Then let’s go get him. His time is up.”

***

Four hours ago he’d informed West that the countdown had begun. Two hours ago, he’d lost all contact with West, and Eleanor informed him that he’d checked out of his hotel room, leaving no trace. Sitting alone in his hotel room, Sholto sipped a single malt whisky, the fingers of his left hand drumming against the armrest as he forced himself to think through the rage and panic.

Eleanor was next door, orchestrating a search for the wayward sniper, but Sholto knew it would be useless. West was too well trained to be found if he didn’t want to be.. Their only chance at finding him, having gone off radar, would require leg work, and a large margin for error. It would mean West had become unstable enough to forget his training, but even then there was no guarantee. 

Unwilling as he was to admit it, Sholto had to face up to the reality of his choices. He should have assessed West’s mental stability before bringing him into this op. The structure and camaraderie of their small covert team had grounded his more unreliable tendencies. Watson knew what to look for and had learned how best to manipulate their pet killer to perform as required.

Lacking the framework to keep him steady, probably off his meds and highly resistant to therapy, god only knew how he had been entertaining himself these past few years.

“This is all my fault” Sholto whispered to himself. He had panicked, finding out John had been activated again. Thinking only of protecting himself and the remaining members, he should have trusted John. Approached him, soldier to soldier, had a simple conversation.   
  
Shit, when had he got so afraid? Now he had unleashed an unstable lethally trained killer after a man he had once considered a good friend. A close friend.

Their best option now, would be to watch Watson, and wait for West to act. And to hope to any god that might be listening that West acted according to his new orders, and took Watson alive. 

With West off grid like this, Sholto worried about the state Watson would be in when the sniper finally surfaced. He’d gone rogue once before, in the end, Watson had been forced to end the target's life simply out of kindness, and the Jungle had been dismantled to prevent any further similar incidents.

The memory of the bleeding pitiful creature that West had callously hauled out of the back of his stolen vehicle, dumped in the dirt like a bag of trash had haunted Sholto. West had shown absolutely no remorse for his actions, seemingly confused as to why everyone wasn’t as delighted as he was. He’d watched out of the corner of his eye as West had crouched down, dipped a finger in the blood dripping from a fresh wound, rubbed it across his fingertips before smearing it across his bottom lip and licking it off….slowly. 

A cold shiver had gripped his spine as he realised how much West got off on killing people. As John stood up from his examination, asking a question with his eyes, Sholto nodded, and flinched as a single shot put the victim out of their misery. He’d ended up having a very difficult conversation with the top brass about why he had chosen to disband their most effective blackops team. Turns out they thought a pet psychopath was a brilliant idea, until he reminded them that he would kill anyone who got in his way, which included them. 

Sholto took another sip of the amber liquid, and with it washed down the temptation to contact his old friend, and warn John that West had gone rogue. He only hoped that West was unstable enough to get sloppy, and that John would fight back enough to make a scene.

He hoped that the risk they were now all taking was worth it….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to upload this Friday... but I've been stressed/depressed/and generally overwhelmed. Just the thought of booting up my PC was too much for me to handle.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably should have waited for the weekend to post this. But I'm pretty down in the dumps and figured completing something might help boost my mood a bit. 
> 
> In this chapter, I've equipped John with some useful tools, I composed a tumblr post with visual aids for you. You can find that by going to this link up  
> https://tindomerelhloni-official.tumblr.com/post/631885683402915840/image-1

John was pulled from a peaceful slumber by the soft trill of his alarm. The crack in the blanket caused by his outstretched arm as he reached out to shut the alarm off allowed a small trickle of cool air to intrude. Sherlock snuggled closer to John’s body, seeking out his warmth.

“Don’t go,” he rumbled softly, pulling the blankets tight around him and nuzzling his nose against the back of John’s ear.

“Mmm… don’t tempt me,” John felt what little resolve he’d had to return to work, even for one shift, fade away. John cursed the past version of himself that had chosen work over spending a morning cuddling with Sherlock. Allowing himself a moment longer of comfort he curled up against Sherlock, placing his hand on Sherlock’s chest and feeling the soft beating of his heart. 

“Five more minutes,” Sherlock’s voice dripped with honey, and warm fingers encircled John’s wrist. He felt a thrill of excitement course through his body when Sherlock began to guide John’s hand first over his chest, then belly, then lower still. Knowing where this was going, John curled his fingers as Sherlock guided him down, letting his fingernails gently drag over soft skin. 

Sherlock let out shuddering breath, and John felt gooseflesh under his fingertips. He loved moments like this. Sherlock was extra sensitive in the morning. In his relaxed state, he lowered the mental and emotional walls that made him less human allowing John to see him for who he truly was. It never ceased to fill John with a sense of awe to see this side of his partner, the side that enjoyed cuddling and soft touches.

“Ten, if you help me get ready,” John whispered, lowering his hand on his own accord, and cupping Sherlock’s erection as he leaned in for a kiss. 

“I’ll make you breakfast while you shower if you’ll suck me off. And I get fifteen minutes, I set your alarm five minutes early.” Sherlock shamelessly rocked his hips forward, moaning at the sweet friction as his morning wood pressed into John’s hand. 

“Cheeky bastard,” John was already rolling onto his knees and crawling under the blankets, as he positioned himself between Sherlock’s legs and pulled at the waistband of his pyjamas, he looked up and asked, “And what do I get?”    
  
“The satisfaction of knowing you got me off before a dull shift if you stay like that.” Sitting partially up, Sherlock used his long reach to his advantage, and tapped at John’s thigh, “Move up here, and take those horrid pants off.” 

Acting quickly, John rid himself of his pants, then repositioned himself so his thighs were cradling Sherlock’s neck, knees flat against Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock’s extra torso length made this position tricky, but since his back was well on its way to recovery, bending wasn’t an issue. So John settled in, lowering himself the few extra inches he needed in order to reach Sherlock’s cock with his mouth. 

He braced himself on both forearms, sliding them beneath each of Sherlock’s thighs. As his hands dug gently into the tender flesh of Sherlock’s thighs he gave the tip of Sherlock’s cock an experimental lick. He didn’t have time to relish the deep rumble of approval that came from Sherlock, as at the same time Sherlock’s lips wrapped around the tip of his own cock. 

It was quick, sloppy, and lewd slurping noises filled their bedroom for ten minutes. Sherlock came hard and fast, without warning, inside John’s mouth. John felt his orgasm building and tried to pull off but Sherlock’s hands held him down. He came, his nose nuzzled against the base of Sherlock’s sticky cock, and bit back a curse as Sherlock’s throat contracted around him, swallowing down each drop. 

Legs still shaking from his orgasm, John flopped more than rolled over onto his back beside Sherlock, head still down by Sherlock’s hips. Running a hand through his hair, and down his face, wiping away the sticky mix of come and saliva he began to laugh. It was a satisfied chuckle, knowing that throughout the day, as he was examining patients with various illnesses, his mind would wander to this moment. 

“Oh, you did that on purpose. If I get hard at work, I’m blaming you,” sitting up, John drank in the soft smile on Sherlock’s lips. He wanted to snap a picture of this moment. Sherlock looked so perfect. His hair lay in a halo of tousled curls, his eyes heavy-lidded, tempting John back down into the pillow beside him. With one hand over his heaving chest, his other gently cupping John’s thigh, his silver ring gleaming in the morning light and John couldn’t believe that this was his life now.

Perhaps the moment was too perfect, and the soldier inside him who’d seen acts against humanity couldn’t accept a peaceful moment for what it was. But a thought sobered him up instantly, his mind returning to the battlefield and to something a soldier had said on his first night there when he commented on a breathtaking sunset.

_ “Ah, but that’s the calm before the storm, Watson,” he’d said, pointing to the sky where it had already gone a dark shade of blue, “that right there my friend, means danger.” He’d been right, the beautiful sunset was a beacon for danger, as soon as it was gone, skirmishes would break out, gunshots could be heard across the African plain, noises from unfamiliar animals joined in the cacophony. It had taken many sessions with this therapist, upon returning home, to allow himself to find beauty in things again without expecting the worst.  _

“What was that?” Sherlock asked, the perfect moment vanishing like mist in the sun, he sat up and gave John a scrutinizing glare. 

“It’s hard, sometimes, to allow myself to enjoy tender or beautiful moments. In the army, we learned quickly not to trust a beautiful woman, a child’s cry for help, or peaceful scenery. This moment was so perfect, the way you looked, your smile. Part of me still looks for the worst in things, but I’ve learned to cherish moments like that, Sherlock, to hold onto them for a rainy day.” 

“Oh.” Sherlock relaxed, his gaze grew less intense and he nodded. “Me too, John.” 

“Now, what was this about you making me breakfast?” Kneeling he leaned in for a kiss, neither of them minding the taste of themselves mingling on their lips. His eyes caught sight of the clock, and with a groan, he pulled away before things could grow heated, or Sherlock could lull him in for a cuddle.

“One egg, toast, and tea. Now go shower, and brush your teeth, or everyone at work will know what you did this morning.” Sherlock grinned, then plopped down on the pillow again, and stayed there as he watched John crawl out of bed. He reached over and gave John’s arse a quick squeeze then listened as a gigging John headed into the bathroom. Only once the taps were on did Sherlock stir, shrug into his second-best dressing gown, and head into the kitchen. 

***   
  


Having spent far longer in bed with Sherlock than he should have, John showered so quickly his body hardly had time to register the temperature of the water. He scrubbed himself clean, stepped out and towel-dried, then ran a finger and thumb over his chin, feeling the length of stubble. It wasn’t bad, he’d shaved two days prior, and he rather enjoyed the red hue Sherlock’s skin took on when they kissed and his stubble pressed against Sherlock’s alabaster skin. Forgoing a shave, he brushed his teeth then turned to the outfit he’d placed in the bathroom the night before. 

His clothing had all been provided to him by Mycroft. Shirt, pants, trousers, even the damn cardigan was a piece of armor, with a matching pair of shoes. There had been a note included, explaining the  _ benefits _ of each article, which John had tossed into the fireplace and burned while Sherlock had been sulking in their room.

According to the note, the maroon shirt had pockets sewn into the collar, in each point of the collar was a metal collar tab. The tabs themselves were each a strip of rigid metal, razor sharp on two edges. A cunningly designed weapon John had never heard of before, so there was a good chance West would overlook them. 

_ If he takes me today…  _ With a grim smile, John buttoned on the shirt, letting his fingertips run over the edge of his collar. He couldn’t feel the edges, which was reassuring.

His briefs had a small GPS tracker built into the waistband. He ran his hands over the elastic and was pleasantly surprised to find he couldn’t detect it. 

His trousers and belt also each had something useful. The trousers had a hidden pocket sewn inside, Inside was a small rectangle of plastic. It was flexible enough that if John were to be patted down, it wouldn’t be detectable. Another useful lock picking tool.

There was nothing special about the dark leather belt itself, but the buckle itself was ingenious. The double prongs that went through the holes in the belt were each a phillips or flat screwdriver head. But best of all, the buckle had a hidden compartment built in. Mycroft had outfitted the compartment with a small fortune in cash, large bills, and in different currencies. Last night, while Sherlock had been occupied, John had moved an item from his shoes, and placed that alongside the cash.    
  
The blue cardigan was less useful than the rest of his ensemble. Its only feature was a small camera disguised as a button on his breast, it was capable of audio, and if connected to the internet would provide live feedback. He assumed if he could get the sweater off between being grabbed and stuffed into some sort of getaway vehicle, that the camera would be evidence enough he’d been kidnapped. He put that on and did his best to adjust the small box behind the camera so the outline didn’t show.    
  
His shoes, which were still in the kitchen, also were packed with gadgets. They were dark brown, similar to shoes he’d typically wear, though exceptionally well made. He’d tried them on the night before, testing his weight on the innersole while reading over the list of items each shoe contained. When he got to the list inside the right shoe, he had a mild panic attack.

Each innersole would lift up, revealing a hollowed out compartment in each heel, much like the boots he’d worn in Serbia. The left shoe held a lockpicking kit, a tiny torch, and a GPS tracker. While the right shoe had a compass, a miniature swiss army knife, and a small single use syringe full of ketamine. Well, it  _ had _ held that. John didn’t fancy the idea of jabbing himself in the foot, so he’d moved the syringe to the belt buckle where it had just barely fit. Tight fit or not he felt safer with it there. To tie up the whole ensemble, quite literally, the laces themselves were made out of a flexible kevlar. His imagination filled in a slew of useful scenarios where that would be handy, his favorite being one lace wrapped around West’s neck until the bastard passed out. 

With one more glance in the mirror and a deep breath to prepare himself for the day, John ran a comb through his hair. Then with a sigh, he squared his shoulders and exited the bathroom, heading for the kitchen, towards the smell of breakfast. Harboring the hope that if Sherlock found anything amiss by his choice in clothing, he’d save his questions for dinner, when John had promised to tell all. 

“I’ve never seen that outfit before…” Sherlock turned from the kettle, which had just boiled and dragged his eyes over John. Every piece of clothing was new, or at least new to Sherlock, and looked out of place on his doctor who preferred jumpers and comfort over fashion. Closing the distance between them, kettle momentarily forgotten, Sherlock felt his deductive reasoning kick into overdrive as he took it all in.

“Yeah well, I did get myself some new clothes while you were…  _ gone _ ,” John said, shrugging and attempting to step past Sherlock into the kitchen. 

“It’s… nice…” Sherlock added, guarding his choice of words as he ran a hand over the high quality cardigan. He held back commenting that the cardigan alone was worth more than John’s entire collection of jumpers and that the shoes sitting beside the door would cover six month’s worth of rent. “The color looks good on you, brings out your eyes. I like the maroon, too,” he said, reaching up to tweak the collar, his fingers finding what he’d already suspected would be there. John was preparing for something, and it wasn’t pleasant. 

_ If I asked him to skip work, to sit here and explain over breakfast, would he?  _ Sherlock wondered, dropping his hands to his side before he made John suspicious. “Tea?” He said instead, turning and moving back to the kettle.

“Ta.” 

“You shouldn’t wear new shoes your first day,” Sherlock commented as John bent to pick up his bespoke leather shoes. “You’ll get blisters.” Tea made, he turned and placed it on the table beside John’s breakfast just as he sat up from tying his shoes.

“I’ll be fine, love. Thank you for breakfast.” 

If John were aware of the level of scrutiny he received from Sherlock as he ate his breakfast, he didn’t let on. He ate with calm controlled motions and didn’t show any signs of distress when Sherlock brought him his mobile from where it had been charging in the sitting room. When it was time for him to leave, he stood up, then stepped close to Sherlock.

“I love you, so much. Just remember that, yeah?” Wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist he pulled his lover close and leaned up on tiptoes, pressing his lips gently against Sherlock’s in a tender kiss. Sherlock pretended not to notice the way John’s arms trembled or the way the tender kiss grew desperate. Instead, he allowed John a moment of comfort, his own arms wrapping around John’s body until they were in a full embrace. 

“And I love you, more than words could possibly describe. And I could describe it in seven languages,” Sherlock tilted his head down and to the side, deepening the kiss. John kissed him as if he needed it like oxygen as if without this moment his very world would collapse. Sherlock gave it to him, providing him with the energy and resolve he would need to face whatever it is was upsetting him.  _ Come home to me, John Watson _ , is what he wanted to say, but instead, he pulled away, ran a hand over John’s shoulder, and cupping the side of his neck asked, “Pick up dinner on the way home?”

“Anything you want, love. Text me and I’d bring you home the moon if you asked.”  _ If it is within my power to come home, my love, I will. _ Breathing in so heavily his shoulders rose, John stepped back, letting his hands drag across Sherlock’s body, not wanting their moment of contact to end. “Are you doing anything special today?” He asked, trying to remove the attention off of himself.

“I meet with that therapist today,” Sherlock’s face scrunched up in annoyance and his voice dipped dangerously towards the  _ “Don’t talk out loud Anderson'' _ tone he reserved for when he was thoroughly annoyed. But the look passed quickly and a soft smile toyed at his lips. Sherlock placed his right hand on John’s bicep and added, “Your suit is ready to be picked up. So I think I’ll see if Mrs. Hudson wants help at the shops today. I can help her with the bags, and she can keep me company. We could swing by and collect your suit, then tonight after dinner burn that horrid brown one.” 

“Right,” John mentally kicked himself,  _ I was so preoccupied that I forgot about Sherlock’s therapist appointment. _ Remembering that the therapist was coming to their flat, he felt a little relieved knowing Sherlock wouldn’t have to leave without his support. That eased some of his guilt for having forgotten. And the thought of Sherlock taking Mrs. Hudson out shopping made him prickle with pride. “Ms. H will love that. Let me know how everything goes. I’ll check my phone between patients.” 

“Don’t get thrown up on.” Sherlock called out as John made for the stairs, trying to lighten the mood so he could see John’s smile one more time before he left. 

“That’s the goal.” John laughed, and he did smile making the corners of his eyes crinkle, “Every damned day of a doctor’s life, that’s the goal,” then he was gone, his expensive new cardigan disappearing around the landing on the stairs. Sherlock listened until he heard the front door open and shut, before closing the kitchen door and looking around the now empty flat.

A glance at the clock told him he had three hours before his new therapist would arrive, so he set about cleaning up the breakfast dishes, showering and getting dressed. Then, settling in his chair he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and called his brother. It was time for answers, and if John wasn’t able to provide them earlier than this evening, he was sure he could persuade Mycroft to divulge  _ some  _ information. If only to get him to go away.

Five minutes later he was shouting into his phone at the poor woman who’d been unfortunate enough to be given the job of telling him that his brother was  _ “in a meeting” _ . Oh, it was true that Mycroft was always in and out of meetings, but this was the first time he could recall Mycroft’s personal mobile phone being picked up by  _ anyone _ other than himself. Even when he was meeting with the Prime Minister, or the Queen herself, Mycroft always had his mobile on in. This was a message clear enough, one to stay out of the way and to keep his nose out of whatever it was that was going on. 

“We’ll see about that, brother mine.” Sherlock snarled at his phone, annoyed at having been so blatantly brushed off. “ _ Oh look, it's Sherlock calling me. He’s finally figured it out that John is in danger. Getting slow, little brother. Hey, you there, answer and tell him I’m busy _ .” Sherlock altered his voice, mockingly mimicking Mycroft and wrinkling his nose as if the very fact that there was another human near him was revolting. “I bet he actually laughed when she told me I was busy.” 

Sherlock settled into a more comfortable position and with a small amount of effort slipped into his mind palace. It didn’t come as naturally as it once had, and he had to fight past the doors and dark hallways of his mind that threatened to take him back to Serbia. As he walked down the main corridor he tripped once and nearly stumbled into a dark hallway. But a hand took his and like a moth drawn to a light he looked over to find John standing beside him. 

Wordlessly John guided him through the once familiar paths of his mind, past the terror that lurked and into a bright and sunny room. It was a spitting image of their sitting room from the day John had first come to look at the flat. Boxes and things scattered everywhere, but with John suddenly sitting in the plush armchair, it had felt like home. So much that it had become the center of his whole mind palace, being the place where he felt most at ease in this world.   
  
John sat in his chair and picked up one of his crap mystery novels. He didn’t turn his attention to it, not just yet. Instead, John looked up at Sherlock, still standing in the middle of the room and gave him a single look. The look said, “Best get thinking, Sherlock, you have a puzzle to solve, and a brother to plot against.” Sherlock felt himself nodding, and instead of sitting in his chair, he moved towards the large sunlit window and began to think.

He allowed himself a fair amount of time devising a plan where he’d have a cake delivered to Mycroft’s office. A large one, the kind that strippers would jump out of, only instead of a stripper he’d jump out and demand answers. It was childish yes, but entertaining. It was easy to conjure up different cakes, or outfits he’d wear, and it gave him the confidence he needed to continue a bit deeper inside, to ask the harder questions. 

For that though, he needed to check something. With a look to John, who still sat reading, Sherlock stepped through a glowing hallway to the next room. One benefit of his mind palace was the simple fact that a door could lead to anywhere. In a matter of seconds he’d moved from the sitting room, through one door, and was able to appear inside John’s old room. He hadn’t meant to come here specifically. He’d meant to revisit the conversation with John from that morning.

_ Why am I here?  _   
  
“Because, Sherlock,” John’s voice came from the doorway speaking for the first time, “You’ve got to save me.”

“But you’re at work. You don’t need saving from work… do you?” 

John tilted his head to one side, and stuffed his hands in his pocket. He gave his shoulders a tiny shrug then said, “Why didn’t you ask me to stay?”

Sherlock replayed the scene from earlier where John had told him he loved him just before leaving.  _ He sounded like a soldier leaving for battle. As if coming home tonight was a possibility. What are the facts? What has he told me, inadvertently or otherwise? _

“You were telling me you might not come home.”

“Why?” John’s question was simple but it sent his mind racing over the past week.

“An old Army mate contacted you, which visibly upset you though you denied it. Why?” John stepped into the room, standing a few feet away from the door and gave Sherlock a slight nod, but didn’t say anything more.

“That I know of, you’ve only lied to me once, about Irene and you did so because you thought you were protecting me. You only lie if the truth is too painful to bear.”    
  
Sherlock began walking circles around John, though he wasn’t directly looking at John, rather the contents of the room, still wondering why his mind had brought him here.

“One week ago you received the email that started this. I presume email, because you were on your laptop, not your phone. Since then you’ve received further communication nearly exclusively through your phone. Your number and email are both on your website, so it could be anyone threatening you. But you’ve gone to Mycroft, which indicates that this person has means, and is at least partially clever. Army mate, clever, someone you worked with while in special ops.”

“Very good.” John nodded, folding his hands behind his back and striking a parade rest pose. “What else?”

“I don’t know  _ what else,  _ John!” Sherlock stopped suddenly, his eyes fixating on John’s bookcase. John’s books came and went, his mystery and romance novels never something worth keeping except for two series. Aside from The Dresden Files and Rivers of London were the small paperbacks that were in constant rotation, the only other books that had remained on his bookshelf over the years were two medical textbooks. Sherlock had been upstairs recently, and he knew for a fact those two textbooks were still there. One of them had a layer of dust on it, the other had looked as if it had been read recently. 

“I had assumed you were brushing up, to help me with physio… but what if…” 

“Yes, but  _ why _ Sherlock. Wasn’t that the question?” John moved, this time walking circles around Sherlock as if trying to distract him from the room.

“I don’t know, John! Why? Why does anyone do anything?”   
  
“Out of love or fear, usually. We’ve seen it enough in our cases.”

“Fear… John… Oh, John, you are brilliant!” Sherlock felt the rush of adrenaline fill his bones as the pieces fit together to form a bigger picture. “You’re being threatened, of course, they are acting out of fear. But why now, why not two years ago?”

John stopped directly in front of Sherlock and looked up at him, his expression asking for Sherlock to understand.

“Oh! You demonstrated by rescuing me that you are still capable of being a threat. You’ve frightened one or more people.”

Before he could process more information about  _ who _ was threatening John or go upstairs to inspect John’s bookshelf, the doorbell rang pulling him out of his mind palace. Anxiety prickled over his neck and a wave of heat rushed over him. The thought of a stranger in their flat, without John present for comfort was overwhelming. 

He thought briefly of letting the doorbell ring and go unanswered, but Mrs. Hudson was home and she wouldn’t go for that. So, he checked his reflection in the mirror and vainly twisted a curl on his forehead, giving it a bit more bounce than it had previously, then went to let his visitor inside.

  
  


***

His appointment with the therapist went nearly forty minutes past the scheduled time. As he walked the woman to the front door, he marveled over the fact that he wasn’t inwardly (or verbally) explaining how her occupation was a farce. Sherlock found he felt… validated if he had to put a word on it. Not once had she made him feel as if he were acting like a spoiled child who simply didn’t want to go out to the store. She had allowed him to explain his feelings, to talk about his triggers and had expressed satisfaction over John’s role in his life. 

He watched as she climbed into a silver estate car, then decided it was time to ask Mrs. Hudson out shopping. Delighted for the company she agreed and gathered up her purse. While waiting he shot off a text to John.

**Therapist wasn’t a moron. -SH**

John’s reply came almost instantly, and Sherlock wondered if he truly were in between patients, or if he was making some poor woman with a snotty nosed child wait.

**_It went well then?_ **

**As well as can be expected. I agreed to meet with her again next week. -SH**

**_Sherlock, that’s great news. Got to go, kid with a stomach bug. Need a bin and a cleanup crew._ **

Sherlock smiled, picturing John getting his outfit, which at the  _ very _ least cost  £5000, covered in bodily fluids.  _ I hope he was wearing a lab coat.  _

“And what are you smiling about, young man?” Mrs. Hudson asked, purse over her shoulders and a hand on her hip. She was smiling, and nodded towards his phone. “It’s about time, the two of you.” 

“Yes, it was, wasn’t it?” Sherlock agreed, holding an arm out for Mrs. Hudson to take. 

“I used to fancy stomping up those stairs,” she commented as they passed through the hall, “and telling you both to either kiss it out, or stop fighting like toddlers. The noise you two used to make. Well, not that you’re any less quiet now.” 

She smiled smugly as Sherlock turned a deep shade of red, wondering if they shouldn’t have turned John’s room into their bedroom, and his into a storage room.

“Yes, well, I can tell John we need to keep it down… a bit.” Sherlock locked up the front door behind them, then hailed down a cab. “We could move upstairs, if that’s easier.” 

A taxi pulled up in front of them and Sherlock opened the door, holding out a hand for her to take so she could steady herself as she climbed in.

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m just teasing.” She laughed softly as he shut the door and walked around to the other side.

“You two enjoy this stage before your bodies get too old to enjoy it.”   
  
“Voyeurism, interesting,” Sherlock teased, enjoying the easy banter, even if it was about his sex life. 

“I’m not quite your brother dear, I don’t have cameras in your flat.” 

“Neither does he, anymore. John saw to that.” 

As the taxi pulled away from the curb Sherlock looked out the window, his eyes automatically picking out the men and woman his brother had watching their flat, “Though he hasn’t given up on hiring people to spy on me…” 

***

“We’re ready, my girl.” West crooned, stepping back to survey his handiwork. He was ready, everything he would need to pull John off the streets when the opportunity struck was now in his possession. A baseball hat would keep his face obscured from most cameras, a simple shirt and jeans would keep him inconspicuous, and a jacket with deep pockets allowed him space to keep everything he’d need without drawing attention to himself. 

He had the items laid out on his cot, he went over them once more, counting each of the pieces in his head. They weren’t fancy tools that the Jungle had been outfitted with, but that suited him just fine. All he needed was something to threaten, something to bind, and something to aid their getaway. He did have a few tricks up his sleeve, just in case Watson had taken their threats seriously and was ready for them.

“Are you jealous darling?” West asked Enyo as he picked up the handgun and checked the chamber, “You’re just too big for this mission, but I need you here, guarding the fortress. If he tries to leave us, you’ll get your chance.”

For the third time that hour, he packed the items in his jacket and had to fight the urge to lay them all out again. With the excitement building inside him, it was hard to remain still, and looking at them helped calm him. Instead, he hung his jacket up on a coat rack he’d moved into the vault, picked Enyo up off the cot and sat down, cradling her in his arms as if she were a baby and not a heavy rifle. 

“How about a story, or would you prefer a song? I’ve got a little time before John’s off work.”

  
  
***

Sholto was beside himself. Eleanor had long since stopped checking in on him, knowing full well that unless she had an update on West’s location her boss’s mood was not to be trifled with. He paced the length of his hotel room, cursing his scarred face, and his inability to blend in, otherwise he’d be out there himself looking for the bastard. Protocol dictated that before the start of a mission, you were to check in with your NCO, show how you’d prepared for the job, and recite the mission word for word before being allowed out on the field. West should have reported to him first thing that morning. 

A knock on the door interrupted his fuming, and he had to fight back the urge to shout. Instead, he took a deep breath, scrubbed a hand over the right side of his face and settled into parade rest.

“Yes?” He called out, both gaining permission to enter and making it clear that his visitor, Eleanor he assumed as the knock came from the adjacent room, should make it quick. Eleanor opened the door just wide enough for her angular face to be visible and got right down to business. 

“Sir, we’ve discovered something that doesn’t bode well. Would you care to come have a look?”   
  
He followed her through to the second room, where a team of his household staff were hunched over computers. When it had become clear that West had gone off grid, Eleanor had called in a few of her top security men, and had put them to work to find West.

“Have you found him?” He asked moments after entering the room. No one looked up, and a small shake of Eleanor’s head was all he needed to know, “What then?” 

“We’ve found some of his correspondence records. Did you know he and Byrd have been in contact?” one of the men said, not getting up but pushing a laptop towards Sholto so he could read what was on the screen.   
  
On it was a list of phone calls, texts and emails between two of his former men. Sloppy, for Byrd, who had been their tech expert, to leave traces of their communication behind. Unless… A heavy weight settled in Sholto’s gut, and he bodily pushed the man out of his chair, pulling the laptop closer as he ran over the list.

_ Byrd wouldn’t leave this to be found if he didn’t want it found. Why… then…  _ He clicked through a series of emails written the previous year and his stomach sank further when he read through them. Two out of three of the emails contained detailed diagrams on how to make explosives, something Byrd was also quite knowledgeable in. Byrd had left a trail, but why?

“Find him,” he said, pointing to the email currently on the screen. 

“Who sir, West, we’re still looking?”

“Byrd! Jeremy Byrd. Find him,  _ now _ !” Sholto stood up with such force that the chair rocked precariously to one side, he brushed past the man he’d just displaced and made a bit of effort not to bump into Eleanor as he moved posthaste for his room, and more importantly for his mobile. 

  
  


***   
**  
  
**

**_Leaving work, love. What did you want for dinner?_ **

John sent the text as he was exchanging his soiled lab coat for the blue cardigan. He was thankful he’d left it in his office where it had escaped the various body fluids of the day. Not to mention the legality of filming patients.

He tossed the coat in a laundry bin and grimaced. It was bad enough, even with a good scrub and some antibacterial soap, he’d be bringing home more germs than Sherlock had been exposed to in months. He just hoped the vitamins he’d been making them both take would keep them both healthy. 

He wiped his phone down with a disinfectant wipe for good measure, then waved goodbye to Sarah as he stepped outside. It was just after five, he had an hour to get food, and get home to safety. Easy enough, as long as food was ordered now, and Sherlock hadn’t picked something halfway across London.

**Angelo’s. I’ll call it in. -SH**

**_Sounds good. Order me something new. Xx_ **

Relieved John headed for the nearest tube station. Angelo’s was a five minute walk from the flat, and the tube would get him there well under an hour from now. The station was full of bored looking people, annoyed that their mobiles no longer had service.

_ Funny how quickly we all adjusted to using our phones to avoid the general public. Makes us easy targets.  _ John thought as he looked around checking his surroundings for anything that could indicate a threat.    
  
He could connect to the station’s wifi, browse social media or his emails like a handful of the other passengers waiting for their train. But it wouldn’t last, as soon as the train pulled out of the station he’d lose all service again. Plus he wanted to remain alert, in case West tried anything before the time was up. Instead, he stood waiting by the gap, flexing the fingers on his left hand, waiting impatiently for the train to arrive, knowing every moment from now until he got home counted. 

A low rumbling filled the station, around him people began to look up from their phones, or pause a conversation in anticipation of the oncoming train. A few people, himself included being more than keen to get home, leaned forward to get a better look at the headlamps as they rounded the underground tunnel. The train rolled to a stop with a squeal of brakes and John’s nose was assaulted by the stink of fuel and grime on hot metal. As the doors hissed open he was jostled out of spot by a few people, then let a mother toting two small children get on board before him.

The protector in him must have placed too much focus on making sure the woman got both children on board with her, and not enough on his surroundings. Because just as he was about to step over the gap and into the train, something hard pressed into his lower back and his blood turned to ice as a voice said. “Hello, Johnny.” 

_ How many people get kidnapped on the underground? _ He wondered as he forced himself to acknowledge his old friend.  _ This was what you wanted, Watson, a meeting with him face to face. Why not now, versus later?  _

“You’re early, Pierce.” It took most of his willpower not to flinch away from the gun against his back, or spin around.  _ I could get on the tube, try to get away. But if he manages to follow me onboard, regardless if that gun is fully loaded or not, we’d have a hostage situation before we got to the next station.  _ Imagining he could feel the cold steel of the gun through his clothing John remained on the platform as a handful of people moved around the pair of them.

“Funny, wasn’t it you who’d always say to catch them off guard?” West’s hand came down like a vice grip on John’s left wrist. He knew John was left handed, knew that if John were to reach for a gun it would be with that hand, so he held firm and stepped closer so he could talk directly into John’s ear without being overheard. “We have two options here. I shoot a few random people and you come with me to prevent further chaos, or you just come with me nice and simple, no one needs to die.” 

_ Keep him talking, stall him. Mycroft must have someone watching me, even if just through CCTV. We planned for this… Give the people around me more time to get on the bloody train. Fewer people on the platform equals less collateral damage.   
  
_ “Off your meds again?”  _ Throw him off kilter, get him angry and use it against him. _

“Stalling, Johnny? Cute, but whoever you have in the government working for you can’t protect you here. Let’s just say… the security room here will need a bit of a cleanup before the next shift, and new equipment will need to be ordered. Blood and computers don’t mix well.” West laughed and the sound caused a chill of fear to travel down John’s spine.

_ No, I want you angry, dammit! Not enjoying this… _ John’s skin crawled remembering the last time he’d worked with West, the pleased look on his face when he’d brought back his target. He still remembered the blood on West’s finger, how he’d tasted the lifeblood of the man he’d just beaten and cut to a pulp. The boy had been beyond hope, it had been a mercy that Sholto had allowed him to end the boy’s life, but that vision still haunted him.  _ And if he is off his meds, christ… what will he do to me? _

John swallowed hard and flinched as the doors hissed shut startling him. Brakes disengaged and the train pulled out of the station with a rush of hot air, the noise jarring him to the very bone. He glanced around quickly, spotting five other people. Among them was a mother who’d been trying to wrestle a pram onboard. He had no doubt that she would be the first to go down if he pushed West far enough. 

_ Move away from civilians, get him alone, and take him out. I’m an army doctor, I can break every bone in his body while naming them. I’ve killed with my own hands.  _ _  
_ _  
_ “Right, shall we go for a walk?” But even as he asked, a voice inside his head (which sounded far too much like Sherlock) said,  _ he caught you off guard, when you were vigilant. You’ve slipped, Watson... How will you gain the upper hand? _   
  
With that, John felt the finger like tendrils of fear begin to take hold. He fought the fear, knowing that while it was an autonomic response of his nervous system, it would be of no use to him. To give into panic or fear now, would only increase his odds of being killed. Capture at this point was likely, and inwardly he was screaming at himself for being this foolish, but with capture came the chance of escape. Death… well that was it, wasn’t it?

“We can have a little  _ chat. _ ” At the thought of going anywhere with the madman, he slipped up and gave into a moment of panic. Instead of reaching for his belt like he should have, he turned around and faced his old friend.

West hadn’t changed much. His features, save for his eyes, were a few years older, but John still would have had no problem recognizing him if they’d simply bumped into him. His eyes however, were vacant and void of life. John couldn’t help but feel like he was staring into the lifeless eyes of a toy.

_ Fuck! Fuck…  _ Internally swearing at himself he realized too late what he had done.  _ If I go for the belt now… he’ll notice and shoot someone, possibly me. Get him on camera, Watson… find a way to drop it. It’ll save the footage, even if they can’t get it real time because it isn’t connected to wifi.  _ He took a step back, his new shoes scraping against the grit on the station floor and watched as West’s dead eyes stared back at him.

“Brilliant idea, Johnny. Why don’t you put your hands in your pockets nice and easy, so I know they won't cause any trouble?” West lowered his hand holding the gun, but kept it pointed directly at him. 

_ I could shout, make a scene and disarm him. But could I get the gun away before he kills anyone?  _ He considered the possibility of being faster than a trigger finger, and decided that the life of an innocent wasn’t worth it. So despite the voice screaming inside him to fight, and not give up without a fight, John carefully placed his hands inside his pockets and nodded to West. 

_ Remember, Watson, you have tools at your disposal. Collar tags, ketamine in your belt, hell two fists that back a lot of punch. Get away from these people, and fucking fight!  _

“Right, where to, Peirce? Front door, or do you have a better idea?” John asked, looking around for anything that might be of use to him, that could aid in his escape. A fire alarm, a security guard, or even a station employee. There were fire extinguishers everywhere, and if he could get one off of its holder fast enough he could use that to bash in West’s head, but the rest of the platform was void of anything of use.

“Oh, you just keep that clever mouth of yours shut, and go where I tell you. I’ll take care of you.” West said with more than a hint of glee in his voice, John tried not to shudder as the vision of the young boy filled his head once again. 

John walked ahead, but West directed their movements. He ordered John left or right, keeping him away from anything that could be of use, including the fire extinguishers. At one point John caught sight of an emergency firebox ahead, and a bubble of hope rose thinking there might be a fire ax inside. But just as quickly as the hope rose, it shattered when the box grew near. As they approached John could see that the glass had already been shattered, and the contents removed.

The moment they were out of sight of the general public, West kept a close step behind him, the gun raised again but this time pressed to the back of his neck. Instinctively John ducked his head down, tucking his chin against his chest, making it harder for him to see ahead.

They made it to a back door with the words “Employees only” written on it. West instructed him to open the door, take two steps out and stand as still as possible or else he would shoot. “And not to kill, Johnny. You remember what it feels like, having a bullet inside you? Move, and you’ll feel it again.”

John did as instructed, heart beating wildly inside his chest as he ran through his options. With each step that had brought him out of the station fear had kicked in realizing Mycroft would have intervened by now. He knew it had been a wistful hope, Mycroft had made it clear that only their flat was under surveillance, and that stepping away from 221b would be dangerous. He considered his options as he stepped through the door and into a narrow alley. 

_ What happens if I run? He shoots me. He wasn’t our sniper by chance. He’s a damn good shot, better than me. I could run in a zigzag, but the alley is narrow, he’ll have the advantage. If I run, chances are he will shoot to kill, not wanting to risk me getting away.  _

A quick glance up and down the alley showed they were the only two people around. 

_ If I shout, there is the chance someone could hear, but then that increases the chance of him killing someone other than me.  _

_ Defense, Survive, Evade, Resist, and if possible, Extract… _

_ How do I survive this?  _ He thought back to his training, to what he and the other recruits had been taught about surviving a hostage situation. 

_ I follow his every order until an opportunity arises. Right now, the risks outweigh the rewards. Remain alert, ignore the panic, and focus. If he takes me, they’ll be plenty of time to give into panic and anger then. Keep your head clear. _

Just to their left, a soft purring of an engine running caught John’s attention. Without moving his head more than a fraction he glanced to the side, and out of his peripheral vision he caught sight of the back end of a black delivery van. From what he could see, there was a flowery design, and a logo of some sort. 

_ I should get that on camera, if possible.  _ He thought as he tried to pick out the letters on the logo. The only letter he could see clearly was the letter S written in a cursive script.    
  
“Turn left and take two steps. Nice and slow, keep your hands where they are for now. Any sudden moves and I’ll shoot you in your shoulder. Perhaps the right one, this time. Or maybe the left, that’ll hurt more.” West chuckled and moved the gun from his neck to the back of his left shoulder. John did as he was asked, mind racing as he tried to process his surroundings.

He managed to get a good look at the logo, hoping the camera had been able to as well. The whole design appeared to have been hand painted. It consisted of a bouquet of roses and the words “Sunny’s Flowers”. A quick glance showed him the number plate had been removed.

A flicker of movement drew his eyes to the side mirror. There was a strip of duct tape, roughly the length of his arm cleverly hung from the mirror. One end stuck to the mirror itself, and the other, to prevent it from twisting in the breeze to the window on the front door. A roll of tape was likewise stuck to the door, a tiny bit peeled away enough to adhere it to the door. 

_ He’s one step ahead of me, to have prepared this far. He knew catching me early would tip the scales. I’m an idiot for thinking he’d stick to the code. _

_ I can go for my belt, and hope I have enough time to fight it open before he shoots me. Then get close enough to him to stab him… _

John felt the panic prickle along his spine, his body remembering what it had felt like to get shot. In the end he hesitated too long, his fear over being shot a second time causing him to freeze in the moment, giving West the upper hand. With a prod of the gun against John’s shoulder West gave John further instructions.

“Walk to the van, place both palms against the door, above your head and spread your legs.” West’s previously gleeful tone was now gone and sounded as dead as his eyes had looked moments ago. 

Stalling for time John slowly took his hands out of his pockets, holding them out to either side where they were in clear view, and the two ordered steps. The steps brought him closer to the van and he knew that with every inch he moved towards it, his chances of escape grew slimmer. West wasn’t much taller than him, but he was bulkier, having the type of body that could put on muscle and keep it. John had always fought for every scrap of muscle he’d ever gained. 

“Pierce… can I take this cardigan off? I assume from here you’ll tie me up, toss me in the back then… kill me, torture me? I’d rather not get blood on this, it was rather expensive.” John did his very best to sound bored, as if being kidnapped were a run of the mill, every day occurrence. He had tools on his body that could help him escape, perhaps willingly giving up his least helpful piece of clothing would help keep West’s attention off of the more important bits. 

West rolled his eyes, but nodded, “Leave it on the ground, you won't be needing it shortly.” 

“Murder then?” John asked, hoping the audio in the camera was of a good quality.  _ Get his voice recorded… Our conversation in the station probably has too much background noise to be of any use.  _ “Sunny’s Flowers… nice touch that? Did you kill her too?”

“Didn’t say that now, did I? Boss wanted you alive, but he didn’t say  _ when _ he wanted you.” West ignored the second question but his eyes flicked to the van and he scuffed a foot against the pavement, a nervous habit when he had too much energy. John knew it was a sign he was growing bored of talking, and could become volatile at any moment, “Empty your pockets as well, toss them against the wall.”

“Right, pockets first, then.” John said much more calmly than he felt. He took his time, removing his wallet and mobile from his back pockets. Then his keys to the flat from the front pocket, he then turned his front pockets inside out to prove there was nothing left inside. West nodded his head towards the side of the station so he tossed his possessions against the wall. He cringed a little when he heard the screen on his phone shatter upon impact. “I’m going to reach for my buttons now, for the love of god, don’t shoot me.”

  
With slow movements John unbuttoned the cardigan and tossed it against the outer wall of the station, hoping it would fall in such a way that allowed the camera a good view of the van as it took off. The logo was unique and took up a good portion of the side door, and while he was certain he’d captured part of it, it wouldn’t hurt to get Mycroft the full image. As the garment fell to the ground, he spoke to cover up the soft clatter the plastic box encasing the camera would cause, “Not going to murder me then, so what, a bit of torture first, then you’ll hand me over to James?”

He didn’t get a chance to see if the camera was left unobstructed, as soon as it was off and his hands were against the van West was beside him. Pressing John’s stomach against the van with the full weight of his body. West’s foot kicked one of John’s aside, opening his legs wider than John had positioned them. Then John’s body was screaming in pain as West drew his knee up in two swift motions. The first hit the back of his balls with such force that if he hadn’t been leaning against the van he would have collapsed to the ground. The second hit him square in the sciatic nerve. He doubled over in pain and his legs became temporarily immobilized from the shot to his nervous system. Before he could recover West grabbed both of his arms and drew them behind his back. 

John was in too much shock from the pain to fight back. Kneeing a man in the bollocks with that much force was dirty, even for West, and it had been unexpected. Then there was the hit to his sciatic nerve. He’d never experienced it, but he knew well enough the intense pain it could cause. Focused elsewhere on his body, he vaguely felt the pain in his shoulder as his left arm was wrenched awkwardly behind him. And it hardly registered that his hands were being bound together by the strip of tape West had prepared. 

Not leaving anything to chance, West ripped the roll off of the van, tore off another piece and wrapped John’s wrists a few more times. He worked quickly, using John’s own nervous system against him. In the span of thirty seconds, he had John’s wrists securely bound together. He pulled back and down on John’s wrists, pulling him away from the side of the van. The door opened on it’s own, John vaguely remembered the remote control feature some vans came with, before he was being forced into the back and into a carpet that smelt of flowers.

West grabbed his legs before regaining movement of his legs. The sound of tearing tape and his groans of pain filled the alley as West quickly bound his ankle together. As the pain began to subside he tried to kick out, to hit West or push him away, but his feet never made contact. In a flash, West had joined him in the back of the van. He’d crawled over John, using his heavier form to pin him to the carpeted floor. 

Despite having spent a solid half a minute groaning quite loudly, and not one person coming to check on the noise, John thought for a moment to scream, or to bite him before he was gagged, but in the end, it didn’t matter. West reached for something to their left, then with one quick motion John felt the sharp jab of a needle, and everything went dark.

***

  
  
Sherlock stared at his mobile, wondering why Angelo was calling him. Thinking he hadn’t been clear enough with their order he answered instead of simply letting it go to voicemail.

**_Sherlock, are you guys coming for your food, or was I supposed to deliver it?_ ** Angelo’s voice crackled through the line. Sherlock felt confusion first, then fear as the implication set in. John had not arrived to pick up their dinner. A quick glance at the clock informed him that John should have picked up their dinner at least twenty minutes ago.

**Oh god…** Sherlock croaked, the phone slipping from his grip. After what he’d pieced together in his mind place, and John’s  _ “I love you, so much. Just remember that, yeah?”  _ It didn’t take long to confirm the fear that someone was threatening John. And now, he knew that the threat had been kidnapping or worse. John had known something was going to happen, just not  _ when _ , he had expected to make it home tonight, or else he wouldn’t have offered to pick up dinner.

He could just hear Angelo’s voice rising out of his phone’s speaker but couldn’t make out what the man was saying, nor did he care. A trance-like state overtook Sherlock as he picked up his mobile from where it had fallen, ended the call with the restaurant owner and dialed his brother’s number. 

Later he couldn’t recall what had made him call Mycroft, rather than try John’s number. Why he hadn’t gone upstairs to snoop around more. He’d discovered the hidden safe inside the textbook but was unable to crack the code. Or how he pushed aside the panic that threatened to overwhelm him. When asked about this later, all he could say was in that moment, the only thing that mattered was the truth, and finding John.

Mycroft himself picked up the phone for the first time that day. His tired voice coming through the line as if talking with his own blood was the last thing on earth he wanted to be doing.

**_Sherlock, what is it? Haven’t you threatened my staff enough today?_ **

**Where the** **_hell_ ** **is John, and what the fuck’s sake is going on?** He seethed into the phone, he could picture his brother, on the other end. Going from slumped posture and a hand massaging his brow to sitting straight up and alert.

**_I’ll be right there, Sherlock, do not leave the flat, under any circumstance. Save for perhaps a fire._ **

In the time it took Mycroft to commandeer a car, change every traffic light in London and break quite possibly every speed limit sign, Sherlock had retrieved the weighted blanket John had purchased for him and had curled up in John’s chair. He’d tried calling John’s mobile seven times, each time it went to voicemail, and each time he was met with John’s cheerful voice, and a message he’d listened to John make years ago. 

_ Right. Hi, I’m either at work, or chasing Sherlock halfway across London. If this is about a case we’ve got an e-mail attached to the blog and Sherlock’s website. Work, leave a message. Mycroft? Yeah well… not interested.  _ __  
__  
It ended with a fit of giggles, and behind John’s bubbly laughter he could hear his own deep chuckle as John ended the message. 

On the seventh call, just as he heard the downstairs door open, Sherlock left his first message. 

“John Watson, you come home to me… God, come home.” 

Mycroft let himself into the flat. Sherlock turned round in John’s chair and glared at his older brother.  _ Grim face, shoulders slouched in guilt.  _ He stood up and immediately regretted the loss of comfort John’s chair had offered him and stood to face Mycroft. Anger made his voice hard and rough. He’d been angry before, but never in his life could he remember rage pumping through his veins with such ferocity. 

Stepping into Mycroft’s personal space, their noses nearly touching, he gave his brother one simple order. “Tell me everything.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have it... the end of Part Two. 
> 
> I'm still out of work, now without any short term disability income (because it ran out) I'm waiting to hear of I qualify for state-run, long term disability while I also wait on my Surgeon to order me another MRI to see WHY I can't sit. He suspects a twisted nerve route or another bulged/herniated disc. Both would probably require a second surgery (Which is why I'm so miserable) I don't think I can handle another surgery... and I'm scared because I have no way to pay my bills next month :( Work is being unreasonable, so I'm also reaching out to a lawyer... we'll see how things go. 
> 
> ANYWAYS.... Part 3 WILL happen, the 1st chapter is written, mostly. It needs some edits and a bit more feeling written into it but the bones are there. The outline is completed, and this story will HAVE A HAPPY ENDING. :-D 
> 
> Make sure to subscribe to the series, so you get updated when I get around to posting the next story. I hope it won't be much more than a month or so from now. 
> 
> Again, all my thanks to BRNZ for the hard work she's put into helping me better my writing, for allowing me to bounce ideas off her, and just everything she's done. Thank you to each and every one of you who's left kudos or a kind comment. Both are appreciated. I'll see you next time, or you can find me on tumblr.


End file.
